


The Strange & Marvelous Story of Our Revival

by saltwatergarden



Series: Romance & Recovery [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Auror Ron Weasley, F/F, Getting Together, Journalist Dean Thomas, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Minor Character Death, Not Epilogue Compliant, Oblivious Harry, Original Character(s), Pining Draco Malfoy, Post-Hogwarts, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Quidditch Player Ginny Weasley, Recovery, Slow Burn, Slytherins Being Slytherins, Teacher Harry, Therapy, Unspeakable Hermione Granger, Wandmaker Draco Malfoy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-02-10
Updated: 2020-09-05
Packaged: 2021-02-19 10:23:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 26,221
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22643404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltwatergarden/pseuds/saltwatergarden
Summary: Five years after leaving Hogwarts, Draco Malfoy has found his place in Wizarding society, as a young and promising wandmaker at the famous Ollivander's. He has a job that interests him, friends he likes, a comfortable home, and a routine that he sticks to. However, when he loses someone close to him, and faces from his past begin resurfacing, he realises that the balance he has carefully constructed in his life isn't as stable as he thought.Harry Potter isn't quite sure what to do with himself. After throwing himself headfirst into everything he's ever done, he's dealing with a hell of a headache and confusion over where to go from here. His friends are busy, his work is relaxed, and no one seems to want anything from him anymore. Instead of feeling relieved, however, he feels adrift. With nothing to occupy him, his mind starts to wander, and he begins thinking more about the past, specifically people from his past...and conversations left unfinished.
Relationships: Daphne Greengrass/Original Female Character(s), Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Ginny Weasley/Original Female Character(s), Ron Weasley/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Romance & Recovery [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1628842
Comments: 105
Kudos: 508





	1. somewhere in between who we used to be and who we'll be tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hello all! This is the first chapter to The Strange & Marvelous Story of Our Revival! Here's some important info:  
> 1.) I use British spelling and grammar in my HP fanfic, because I feel like it's more faithful to the original work. However, I refuse to spell marvelous with two Ls. I'm sorry, British people, it just looks ridiculous to me. :D  
> 2.) This is a sequel to my fic, The Wand That Chose Two Wizards. If you haven't read that one, I'm going to try to write this one in a way that allows it to stand alone, but it'll probably make more sense to you if you've read the first one!  
> 3.) I am currently writing this story, it isn't a completed fic that I'll be periodically uploading chapters to. I'll try to update as frequently as I can, but I'm going to go ahead and apologize in advance for any long stretches between chapters.  
> 4.) Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc., as well as the original characters and plot, are the property of JK Rowling. I'm just having fun with them!
> 
> Okay, that's all I've got! Chapter title is from Life of the Party by All Time Low and this chap's moodboard is our lovely Draco. Enjoy!

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186693494@N02/49656227063/in/dateposted-public/)

_August 15: Thursday_

Draco swept his wand through the air, warding the door and the shop securely. He took his time, making sure he didn’t forget a single spell. It had been another hectic day, and he was properly exhausted. For the past week, he had had to practically force himself out of bed in the morning, but it was finally mid-August, and the rush of Hogwarts students crowding Diagon Alley was slowly starting to die down.

It was his second year being fully and independently in charge of Ollivander’s now. Most of the year was quite peaceful, and he was able to dedicate a majority of his time towards research and crafting new wands, with only the occasional customer dropping in for a purchase. Late summer was the busiest time, with an influx of new and returning Hogwarts students flooding the streets, first-years purchasing their first wands and a handful of older students bashfully admitting they had either broken or lost theirs. Christmastime was also somewhat demanding, but far more manageable. Thank Merlin for small mercies.

After closing up the shop, Draco cast a quick cleaning charm to rid the room of dust and then walked up the spindly spiral staircase into his workshop.

He adored his workshop. When Ollivander had officially handed the keys of the shop over and signed the deed over to Draco’s name, he had been granted full freedom to make any changes he saw fit. He hadn’t wanted to change much about the shop; Ollivander’s was a staple in the Wizarding community and Draco knew many witches and wizards had sentimental attachments to the store—he himself liked the darkness and airiness of it. He had attempted to tidy up the store a bit, sorting his wands out by core and wood, and setting certain Self-Cleaning Charms, however major changes were only done to the workshop upstairs.

Ollivander had told him to organise it the way he liked, since it was to be his workplace and therefore needed to be an environment he felt productive in. So Draco had done so, rearranging the work station and purchasing shelves for all of his supplies. He had also put in a couple armchairs and a kettle by the fireplace for breaks and for when Ollivander stopped by.

Ollivander still came by the store occasionally, even though Draco was now formally a wandmaker in his own right. They had monthly meetings, which Draco welcomed. Ollivander had become more than an instructor in the years since Hogwarts; he was a mentor to Draco. They mostly discussed wandlore and Draco’s research and experiments in wandmaking, but they would sometimes drift off into other topics.

After Hogwarts, as his apprenticeship had continued, Draco had become more trusting of Ollivander, and opened up more about his ongoing struggles with coming to terms with the part he played in the war. Ollivander was wise, and kind, and had helped Draco through much of his internal strife.

Draco checked his watch, the pale grey dial softly glimmering in the fading afternoon light streaming through the window, and frowned slightly. Ollivander had been due through the Floo almost fifteen minutes ago. He was always punctual, one of the many things Draco liked about him. However, he was also quite old, so perhaps it had just slipped his mind.

Draco Summoned a quill and penned a quick note, asking after the senior wandmaker’s wellbeing and whether he would like to reschedule their meeting, and then called over Elpis, promising her a treat when she returned. She hooted happily as he tied the letter to her leg, and took off as soon as he opened the far window.

While he was here, Draco decided he may as well have some tea, starting the kettle with a swish of his wand and settling into one of the comfortable armchairs. After the busy day he had had, he felt he had earned it, though he couldn’t really complain of good business.

Last year, he had been terrified of working on his own, certain that no one would want to purchase wands from a man like him. Ollivander had calmed him, reminding him that after the first year of serving as his apprentice in the store, the gossip and judgment had already died down.

_“People have short attention spans, Draco,”_ Ollivander had said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. _“I guarantee there’s something far newer and more interesting than your past to get up in arms about now.”_

As usual, he had been right. The beginning had been tough, and he had overheard many people wondering out loud if Ollivander had “lost his rocker” hiring an ex-Death Eater, but over time these conversations grew less and less frequent, and people got used to him being around. He had even become somewhat friendly with some of the other workers and owners of neighbouring shops.

Still, serving as Ollivander’s apprentice had been one thing; taking over the job entirely was another, and Draco had been fraught with nerves his first few months. There was the occasional customer who vowed their children would never purchase a wand off of him and had instead taken off to Carkitt Market in search of imported wands from Kinta Wolfe in the United States or Filip Poláček from closer to home in the Czech Republic.

Draco had agonized over that initially, but Ollivander had reassured him that his work would speak for itself, and he wouldn’t have to worry about customer disloyalty. Now, only in his second year, he had already earned his place at Ollivander’s in society’s eyes, as well as in Ollivander’s himself. Pre-Hogwarts season certainly proved he didn’t have to worry about customers running to the competition. In fact, he wouldn’t even complain if a few more decided Czech wands were more their style.

* * *

_August 16: Friday_

When Draco stumbled into the kitchen in the morning, he found that Polkey had left breakfast for him under a stasis charm. He sighed a little, but pulled the tray towards himself and undid the charm before digging in.

He had moved into London last year, when he had taken over Ollivander’s, declaring that he wanted to be closer to work. While true, it hadn’t been the only reason. Returning to the Manor from Hogwarts had been difficult. His mother had truly outdone herself in the repairs and renovations, and the cold and maddening feeling of the remainders of Dark Magic had been removed. However, Draco had found that many prickly memories remained. He had once loved this house; had played in the gardens and run through the hallways, but too much had happened here. Too much had changed.

Narcissa herself had had quite enough of it once her year of house arrest was through, having been confined within its walls as she served her sentence, and she had wheedled Draco into taking a lengthy vacation with her on the Isle of Skye. Upon their return, she had settled into a nice routine and grew to enjoy the Manor again, now that it was a home instead of a prison.

But Draco had continued to feel slightly uneasy, as though there was a constant chill up his arms he could never shake off. Much as he loved his mother, he had been glad to have the excuse of his work to move out.

Surprisingly, Narcissa had encouraged it, proclaiming that it was time for Draco to be his own man. She had been proud of his work, even though Draco knew that Lucius would have sneered about it, and had offered to help Draco search for a new place to live. Draco had turned her down, because he knew she’d end up taking over the task entirely. He did promise to have her over as his first guest however, and he had followed through once he had made the purchase.

His new home was a terraced house in a decent wizarding neighbourhood, a far smaller choice than Narcissa had expected. Draco had known it would be an adjustment, but the Manor had felt so overwhelming and so vast during the last few years, with Lucius being gone and their years of entertaining guests long behind them. He hadn’t realized how empty it would feel with only the two of them there. He was only one person, and he had decided that this was more than enough space for him.

Narcissa had insisted that one of the remaining Malfoy house-elves be assigned to him. Draco had attempted to argue, but he should have known better than to try and dissuade Narcissa of something once her mind was made up, so Polkey officially became his house elf. He had managed, at least, to convince the two of them that Polkey should spend most of her time at the Manor, since he was often at work anyway, but Polkey still came around to prepare meals and clean up.

Draco was trying to teach himself how to cook, something he only thought of after a thorough admonishment from his best friend— _“You’re a grown man and you can’t even fry an egg? For shame, Draco!”—_ but it was hard to practice when there was always a meal ready for him in the kitchen. He kept telling himself he’d have a word with Polkey about it, but a part of him was far too selfish to give up these delicious meals for his own dismal cooking.

After finishing up his breakfast, he cast Cleaning Charms on all the dishes and levitated them to return them to their proper shelves. He could at least say he had gotten slightly better at household spells, though Polkey always managed to find something he’d missed or forgotten to clean.

Checking his watch, Draco went back to his bedroom to get dressed. It was another day of work ahead of him, and he could only hope today would be less stressful than yesterday.

Before opening up the shop today, he took the extra few steps down the south side of Diagon Alley to Prospero’s Potions Emporium. It was still early enough, and it had been a while since he had stopped by to catch up with Theo. The young shop assistant, Willa, looked up when the door opened and waved when she recognized him.

“Hi Draco!” she said, cheerily. “Looking for Theo?”

“If he’s available?”

“I’ll check if he’s brewing yet,” she said, and walked through the curtained archway that led to the back of the store. After a few moments, which Draco spent observing the potions under lock and key in the glass case by the register, she reappeared.

“He said you can go on back,” she told him. He thanked her and walked through the curtain himself, back to where he knew Theo was brewing. Sure enough, in the back workshop, Theo was bent over a cauldron.

“Hey,” he greeted him gently, so as not to disturb his focus. He knew how concentrated he himself would get while brewing potions, and how much he hated being interrupted. But Theo easily looked up and grinned at him.

“Hey, Draco,” he said. “How are you?”

“I’m well,” Draco replied. “Trying to make it through the rest of August in one piece. And yourself?”

Theo shrugged, ceasing the flame under his cauldron with a casual flick of his wand.

“About the same.”

“What are you brewing?” Draco asked, curiously trying to catch a glimpse of the contents of the cauldron.

“Nothing exciting,” Theo snorted. “There’s some sort of stomach bug going around, we’ve been selling out of our Stomach Soothing Tinctures, so I’m making more batches.”

Draco nodded, watching as Theo began to carefully spoon the potion into a glass vial.

“And how is the lovely Miss Cordelia?” he asked, not failing to notice how a smile automatically spread across Theo’s face at the sound of her name.

“Wonderful as always,” he replied, stoppering the vial and getting started on another one. “She’s been promoted to work as secretary for Quincy Buchanan at the Headquarters of the International Magical Trading Standards Body.”

Draco’s eyes widened.

“Already? That’s impressive.”

“She’s overqualified, to be frank.”

Draco couldn’t help but smile. Theo’s admiration for his girlfriend was overwhelmingly endearing.

“She certainly is, but she’s also only, what, twenty-two?”

“Twenty-one,” Theo corrected, stoppering the last vial and then casting a quick Cleaning Charm on the cauldron. Draco let out a low whistle.

“She’ll be the head of the whole department in less than five years, I’d bet my wand on it.”

Theo smiled.

“I’ll tell her you said that, she’ll be delighted.”

“Oh, good, after you do that, remind her how much I adored that strawberry toffee she made for Violet’s birthday.”

Theo rolled his eyes good-naturedly.

“If you want, you can just ask her, you know. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind making some.”

“I’d rather do it through you, I think she likes you better,” Draco said, playfully, and Theo shook his head in amusement.

“Don’t you have a business to run?”

“Yes, yes, I’m off to run it. Will I see you at Violet and Daphne’s next Slytherin reunion?”

“You have to stop calling them that, Draco,” Theo said, but he was still grinning.

“The day she invites someone that wasn’t in Slytherin, I swear I will,” Draco replied, crossing over his heart with his finger.

“Yes, Cordelia and I will be there. You know, my girlfriend, who _wasn’t_ a Slytherin.”

“Ah-ah!” Draco raised a finger. “She didn’t go to Hogwarts, so it doesn’t count. She very well _could_ have been a Slytherin.”

Clearly realizing that it was pointless to argue, Theo made a shooing motion with his hand.

“Go, Draco, I’ll see you next Sunday.”

After bidding goodbye to Theo, Draco walked back through the curtain to the front of the shop. Willa was busy with a customer, so Draco just sent her a little wave before ducking out of the store and heading back north towards Ollivander’s.

Despite his busy schedule, he always looked forward to Violet and Daphne’s dinners. They had started when Violet and Daphne had first moved into their own place, almost three years ago now. Initially, it had just been the five of them—Violet, Daphne, Theo, Blaise, and Draco—the only Slytherins of their year who had returned to Hogwarts after the war. They had all kept in touch after school, some more than others, and Daphne had had the idea to start a tradition of meeting up every so often so that they would actually see each other more regularly.

It had grown from there, with both Violet’s and Daphne’s younger sisters joining in. They were of a similar age, Laurel being only one year younger than Astoria, but it had been slightly awkward when Laurel had come to her first dinner, being the only one at the table who couldn’t perform magic. She hadn’t seemed bothered in the slightest, and had easily broken the tension by jokingly insisting that she refused to be on dish duty since they could all accomplish it in seconds.

Draco had already been familiar with her humour and how accustomed she was to being the only Squib in the room, as he had met her before. She was very similar to her sister in her mannerisms and attitude, which of course endeared her to Draco, since Violet was such a good friend of his.

Occasionally, Ella Wilkins would join them as well. Daphne and Violet had kept up with her after Hogwarts and she now worked at the Velvet Tearoom, an upscale café and bar just a few blocks over from Ollivander’s, even closer than Prospero’s. When she had started there, Violet had asked Draco to pop in now and then to check on her. Initially, that was all it had been, but Draco had become better friends with her, as well as with the head pastry chef, an American woman named Sabrina Sullivan, and he quickly became addicted to their desserts. Despite their friendship, Ella remained rather shy and had been surprised when Draco had invited her to a Slytherin dinner, but she had ended up enjoying herself.

She didn’t come every time, claiming she didn’t want to impose, no matter how many times Violet and Daphne insisted she was more than welcome, but Draco still saw her often enough due to the proximity of their workplaces.

Perhaps he’d take a break over lunch and go see her today. It had been a while since he had been there, and he was always in the mood for one of their delectable pastries.

But first, he had to make it through this morning.

Truthfully, he loved selling wands. When he had begun learning about wandlore, he had never understood how Ollivander could possibly remember every wand he ever sold, but now that he was a wandmaker himself, it seemed more fathomable.

Making a wand was an intimate process, the closes Draco had felt to something spiritual. He poured his soul into every wand he made, and it was strenuous, exhausting work. It was always close and careful crafting work as well; he would never allow a subpar wand to be sold.

Watching kids try out the wands was rather special as well. He had never been particularly fond of children, not having any younger siblings or cousins while growing up, but he remembered how excited he had been to get his first wand and he could see that same excitement in every child’s eyes as they entered his store.

He wondered if one day he would be able to remember every want he ever sold the way Ollivander did, but just in case his memory was not up to Ollivander’s level, for the time being he kept a log. In his first year, he had sold exactly sixty-three wands. He had worried that that wasn’t enough perhaps, despite how busy he had been, but Ollivander had been encouraging, saying it was a very impressive number for his first year.

He had sold one wand today thus far, to an energetic girl with wild blonde curls and a mother with the patience of a saint. She had tried six wands before finally landing on the right one, causing quite a bit of destruction in the shop. Her mother had apologized profusely, but Draco had smiled and waved it off, reassuring her that it was all part of the process. The girl had been delighted with her wand and had nodded and listened intently as Draco instructed her on how to care for it. After she had left with her mother, Draco pulled out his log and quill and added a new line.

_Paige Woodward – beech and bumblebee wing, twelve inches, light and yielding_

* * *

Elpis still hadn’t returned with Ollivander’s response by the time Draco was ready to close up for the day, which was slightly worrisome. The senior wandmaker did live rather far, but he hadn’t expected it to take this long. He supposed Elpis had probably been tired after the journey and Ollivander had let her stay and rest. While he didn’t have any pets himself, Ollivander had a soft spot for animals, and he loved Elpis, always commenting on her lovely plumage.

Draco knew Elpis was in good hands, so he put away his worries and warded up the shop before leaving and casting the final locking charms from the outside.

“Hey Draco,” came a warm voice from behind him. He turned to see Dean Thomas emerging from The Daily Prophet’s main office.

Ollivander’s store being right across from The Daily Prophet headquarters had been a daunting prospect for Draco when he started working there. Even while under Ollivander’s tutelage, there had always been the odd reporter hanging around outside with a camera, reading to snap a picture of Draco doing something untoward. Only after months of Draco living his typical, not particularly interesting life did they finally let up and more or less leave him alone.

He was still by no means fond of the newspaper, and he was always careful, but he didn’t do anything these days worth reporting on anyway, so he didn’t feel as hunted as he once had.

Dean Thomas was one of the few people working at the Prophet that he could stand, despite the dislike they had had for each other during their Hogwarts years. The former Gryffindor had been named Junior Quidditch Correspondent several months ago, after doing grunt work there for years. They weren’t exactly friends, but they had built up a friendly rapport, greeting each other and occasionally exchanging simple news or small talk. Draco would ask what teams Dean expected to make it to the league and Dean would joke that revealing such information would violate his contract.

“Hello Dean,” Draco greeted him. “Busy day?”

Dean shrugged.

“Not really. Quidditch season doesn’t start for another month. You?”

“Demanding, but quite entertaining. Two Muggleborns bought wands today; that’s always the most fun.”

“With their parents?” Dean asked, a grin spreading over his face.

“Oh, yes,” Draco nodded. “The boy’s poor mother nearly fainted when he accidentally shattered the window.”

“Ah, if only she knew what’s yet to come,” Dean said, devilishly.

“I made the rules about underage magic explicitly clear to all of them.”

Draco had learned from Ollivander all the additional information he had to give to Muggle parents, and he made sure he explained everything methodically. It was easy to forget how much Muggles didn’t know, despite how much better his knowledge of Muggles had become.

After he and Dean parted ways, Draco Apparated home to rest for a bit before he was due at the Manor. He had promised his mother he would go there for dinner tonight, though he wasn’t feeling entirely up to it. He thought he’d much rather wait for Elpis at home and just be lazy on the sofa, but he knew better than to go back on his word with Narcissa. If he tried to say he wasn’t feeling well, she’d be at his house in minutes and have Polkey prepare him a soup.

So he allowed himself twenty minutes to relax before going to his bedroom and changing into a different set of robes appropriate for dinner. He did enjoy dinners with Narcissa, even when they were after a long day of work. He had always adored his mother, but they had grown even closer the past few years, as he had developed a different relationship with her as an adult. He had admired her as a child, of course, but he had been a daddy’s boy growing up, idolizing Lucius while slightly fearing him as well. But as an adult, he saw how truly impressive his mother was, how capable and strong she was, with at true tactician’s mind and none of the volatile temper Lucius exhibited. He enjoyed spending time with her and was grateful for how their relationship had grown and developed.

After stepping out of the Floo and brushing non-existent Floo powder off of his robes, he walked over to where she was waiting for him and leaned in to greet her with a kiss on the cheek.

“Hello Mother,” he said, smiling at her.

“Draco, dear, how was your day?”

“Busy as usual,” he replied, accompanying her into the dining room. “But quite pleasant, and yours?”

“Oh, it was lovely. I had my second lunch with Andromeda today.”

This was a new development—Narcissa’s decision to reach out to her estranged sister in an attempt to make peace. She had told him she’d sent Andromeda a letter only a month ago, but Draco could tell she had been thinking about it for a lot longer. Two weeks ago, they had met for lunch, seeing each other face-to-face for the first time in years. Narcissa had gotten teary-eyed just talking about it to Draco. From what she told him, it had been a somewhat awkward meeting, but there had been heartfelt apologies and tearful embraces and they had agreed to meet again.

“How was it?”

“Wonderful,” she said, with a soft smile on her face. “She is so kind and warm, I’d forgotten how it feels to be around her.”

“That’s great to hear,” Draco said, reaching out to squeeze his mother’s hand. “I’m glad you decided to contact her.”

“I am as well,” she said. “I’d love for you to meet her soon.”

“I’d like that.”

Dinner went quite smoothly, and Draco found himself grateful that he hadn’t cancelled on his mother. The food was delicious as always, thanks to the elves, and Draco was reminded again how much he enjoyed Narcissa’s company. She listened intently as he told her of research he was doing on infusing wands with multiple cores, and insisted he eat a second plate of dinner because he was “far too thin, Draco, are you certain Polkey shouldn’t be at your home more often?”

He was just bidding her goodbye in the living room with a kiss on the cheek when the fireplace roared to life.

Draco’s wand was in his hand in an instant, his left arm flying out to push his mother behind him. He didn’t even think, his reaction was automatic, an instinctual movement.

A slender woman emerged from the fireplace, flicking back short pin-straight black hair with long and dangerously pointed red fingernails. She looked up at Draco and smirked at the sight of his wand pointed at her.

“Come now, Draco, are you really going to hex your dear old friend?”

Draco’s grip on his wand slackened and he stared at her in disbelief.

“ _Pansy?”_


	2. i think that keeping this up could be dangerous

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron watched her go with a fond smile.
> 
> “Is she on call every weekend?” Harry asked, remembering how she had to leave lunch early last weekend as well.
> 
> “Nah,” Ron said, returning to his food. “She’s on her emergency rotation now, so it’s more often, but they’re putting her on poisons and antidote training next month.”
> 
> “I don’t know how she’s managing to study for her exams and work this many hours at the same time,” Hermione said, shaking her head incredulously. “Even with a Time Turner, that seems impossible.”
> 
> “Ron clearly has a type,” Harry said with a grin, completely anticipating the thwack on the back of his head that followed his remark.
> 
> “Says you, Mr I-Only-Date-Quidditch-Players,” countered Ron, eyebrows raised.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel strangely evil about this chapter. do not worry too much, friends, drarry approaches soon !!
> 
> chapter title is from Therapy by All Time Low, one of my favorite songs ever. chapter moodboard is Harry.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186693494@N02/49656227288/in/dateposted-public/)

_August 17 – Saturday_

“Come on in, Harry,” Rhiannon beckoned him from her doorway. Harry jumped to his feet and followed her into the room, closing the door behind him before making himself comfortable on the cushy sofa.

“How are you doing?” she asked, sitting in the armchair across from him and tucking a lock of her wild hair behind her ear.

Strange as it was, Rhiannon’s hair was one of the things that first endeared her to Harry. After he had finished at Hogwarts, he had followed through on his promise to Hermione and found himself a Mind Healer, an older man by the name of Irving Locke. He had worked with him somewhat half-heartedly for about six months before deciding he didn’t feel comfortable and wasn’t making the progress he was expecting. He had been ready to give up entirely and mope about it for a while, but Hermione would have none of that. She had found Rhiannon Shields, a Mind Healer who specialized in trauma recovery. Apparently she was a favourite for people who needed help after the war.

Harry had been sceptical during his first meeting, but had warmed up to her quickly. She was far more casual than his last Mind Healer, who had sat across from Harry with a clipboard, scribbling on it with a quill as Harry spoke and barely even making eye contact. Rhiannon had no clipboard, just a little Muggle-looking notebook on a side table that she’s occasionally jot down some notes in, and speaking to her felt far more like a regular conversation than some sort of medical appointment. She was also rather younger than her predecessor, with kind brown eyes and a head of messy black hair that strongly reminded Harry of his own, if just a bit longer. It had taken a few sessions, but Harry grew to trust her and feel comfortable being open and honest with her.

“Pretty good,” Harry replied, honestly. “I asked my boss to put me down for less hours this fall.”

“Oh? How did that go?”

“Fine,” admitted Harry. “I thought maybe she’d be irritated and it’d be an inconvenience, but she said it was no problem.”

“That’s great,” Rhiannon said, warmly, but she looked at Harry with knowing eyes.

“Yeah,” he said, slowly.

He waited for a moment, to see if she would ask, but she stayed silent, waiting for him to elaborate.

“I feel a bit strange,” he said. “Twitchy, you know? Like I'm doing something wrong. I keep telling myself it’s the right decision, but I still feel like I should be working _more,_ not less.”

“Why’s that?”

Harry grimaced slightly, because Rhiannon knew the answer to that. Still, she had said it was important to keep asking, because he had to acknowledge his own motivations before he could begin to try and change them.

“Probably because I constantly feel like I should be doing more for people.”

Rhiannon paused again, letting Harry sit in the soft aftermath of his statement. This was another thing she did—leaving a space for Harry’s words to take full effect. Sometimes he said things without really thinking through them, and this helped him examine thoughts he didn’t even realise he had until they were out of his mouth.

“When does fall semester start for you again?” Rhiannon asked, seemingly having decided that Harry had digested his own words. “It isn’t the same as Hogwarts, right?”

“Right, we don’t start until the end of September,” confirmed Harry.

“So what are your plans until then?”

Harry paused, realizing that he didn’t have any plans.

“I don’t know. I thought I would have more to do, planning for my classes and all, but I won’t have as many as I thought.”

“What about your friends?”

“I’m not sure,” Harry shrugged. “Hermione’s schedule changes like the weather, so she can’t plan ahead as much as she’d like to.”

Hermione had been working as an Unspeakable for three years, and even Harry didn’t know much about what her work consisted of, due to how secretive the Department of Mysteries was.

She and Harry lived together in Grimmauld Place, Harry having insisted on it when she had expressed an interest in living in London. Initially, he had been worried that he would regret it, but she was truly the ideal roommate—though he would never admit that to Ron.

When she had first moved in, Harry was still in a rather low place, attending sessions with Irving Locke and working as a trainee at Keswary School of Magic, but not feeling up to much else. Hermione hadn’t told him off the way he had expected, but rather suggested they try to redecorate the place, and continue the work of going through and getting rid of a lot of the remaining dark artefacts. It had taken a long time, but eventually, together they managed to make it feel more like a home. Harry felt a slight pang of longing, wishing Sirius had been there to see it, but for the most part, it helped him feel a bit lighter and he knew he wouldn’t have even thought to do it without Hermione.

The Daily Prophet had had a field day when they found out that Harry and Hermione were living together, without Ron. There had been countless articles about how Harry had betrayed Ron by shacking up with his ex-girlfriend or about how Hermione had always been in love with Harry and had only dated Ron because Harry had been with Ginny and she’d wanted to make him jealous. It was all rubbish, and thankfully, Ron had taken it with good humour, mockingly admonishing Harry for dating both his sister and his ex-girlfriend and warning him off of Sophie. Eventually the articles died down, because of course, nothing ever happened between Harry and Hermione, and people slowly got bored of the same old rumours being recycled.

“What about Ron?”

“He’s quite busy, as well,” Harry said, thinking of how exhausted Ron was every time he saw him. “We still see each other though; we’re getting lunch today, actually.”

“That’s good! Are you making sure you’re getting out of the house enough, besides just work?”

“Yeah,” Harry paused, gathering his thoughts and trying to figure out what was the best way to phrase what he wanted to say. “I like to take time to myself and think about things, and the journal you suggested helps more than I thought it would. But I know staying in my room in the dark isn’t the healthiest thing, so I’ve been trying to go out and write somewhere else. There’s a Muggle park near the house I like to go to, although this café I loved in the area recently closed.”

Rhiannon gave him a warm smile.

“Are you a coffee or a tea man?”

“Tea. And pastries.”

“Try Breadsmith on the south side of Diagon, if that’s not too crowded for you. Great tea, and their apple and cinnamon tarts are to die for. You order at the counter too, so it’s a good place if you want to work in private with no one bothering you.”

“Thanks,” Harry said, genuinely. “I’ll check it out.”

“No problem, I think you’ll like it. Now, how have you been sleeping lately?”

* * *

Harry saw Sophie as soon as he emerged from the Ministry Floo, sitting by the fountain in the Atrium with a book in her hands and a concentrated expression on her face. He ambled over to her, keeping his distance once he got close because he didn’t want to interrupt her focus.

Sophie had officially become a Mediwitch this year, and her life was as hectic and as ever. She was still studying to be a Healer, and now had to balance her studies along with her work, which was an incredible challenge. Harry often wondered if he and Ron even got to spend any time together other than just sharing a bed, since they were both so busy all the time. Sophie had taken to carrying her books around with her everywhere, taking every free minute she could to study.

“Hi, Harry,” she said, her eyes not looking up from her book.

“Er, hi,” Harry said awkwardly, taking the last few steps toward the bench and sitting beside her.

“Sorry, I just want to finish up this chapter before lunch,” she apologized with a grimace.

“No worries,” he said, leaning back and folding his hands in his lap. They had to wait for Ron and Hermione anyway. He still couldn’t help feeling slightly on edge, like he was forgetting to do something. He reminded himself, as Rhiannon had told him to, that just because his friends had very active and stressful lives didn’t mean he had to as well, and it didn’t make him a bad person that he didn’t.

It was a strange feeling, not having anything urgent to take care of, and something he was still getting used to, despite years of a generally calm and quiet life. His first year out of Hogwarts, he had started as a trainee at Keswary. He had still been receiving regular instruction from Waya, his old Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, Flooing into Hogsmeade and walking up to Hogwarts grounds. Life was still somewhat stressful, although of course the stress of Advanced Defence training and the study of education didn’t exactly compare to the stress of an evil wizard trying to kill you and everyone you love.

Harry liked to keep busy. He liked to be productive, he liked to know he was helping, he was contributing, he was _doing something._ It was through talking about it with Rhiannon that Harry realized it was just what he was used to—even as a child, the Dursleys had always kept him busy with cleaning and cooking duties and various other chores. His Hogwarts years hadn’t exactly been peaceful; even when he wasn’t worrying about Voldemort, there was never a lack of chaos in the castle. He was always on the go, whether it was trying to figure out the damned golden egg in the Triwizard Tournament, or studying for his O.W.L.s, or trying to learn Occlumency from Snape in the dungeons, he had barely had a moment’s rest. The first year out of Hogwarts, he had kept busy. He hadn’t done it on purpose, he was just functioning like he always had, running around with a lot to do and a sense of urgency following him around as he did. He had kept that up for two and a half years, even after he’d started seeing Rhiannon and she’d urged him to slow down, and finally he had burned out.

He hadn’t really understood at the time what was happening, because the first thing that happened was that he fell ill. He thought he must have just caught something from one of the kids at the school, and tried to push through. But soon he discovered he could barely get out of bed in the morning. He felt weak and fatigued; his head pounded, his body ached, his stomach tossed. Hermione had tried to help care for him, but she had been drowning in her own work as well. Finally, in a session with Rhiannon that he’d had to drag himself to, she’d set him straight.

“I’m going to be very honest with you, Harry,” she had said, with a serious expression on her face. “You are an exceptionally talented and wonderful young man. You are incredibly kind and selfless, and have devoted yourself to a noble career of helping others and education the next generation. But you are also one of the most stubborn people I have ever met in my life. Your hard-headedness is going to kill you one day, and it’s going to be very embarrassing for you, to have survived an evil, homicidal Dark wizard and be defeated by your own stupidity.”

Harry had gaped at her, at a loss for words. She had gone on to tell him that he was showing classic signs of being burned out—in other words, he had worked himself to utter exhaustion. She sternly told him he had to cut down his workload and had to take more time for himself. She insisted he take proper care to make sure he was eating nutritious meals and sleeping enough hours at night.

He had been doubtful, certain that his illness was something else, but he’d followed her instructions nonetheless and found that she was mostly right; the stress and the tiredness slowly dissipated as he gave himself more time to rest.

It was harder than he’d thought, though, because he hadn’t expected the feeling of guilt that came with being idle for a certain period of time. He would get this strange urge to run, to move, to act, if he hadn’t done so recently. He always felt like he was supposed to be doing something important, or like he was slacking off on some vital task.

Five years since he left Hogwarts and he was definitely making steps in the right direction, but it was slow progress.

“If it isn’t two of my favourite people in the world!”

Harry looked up to find a tired-looking but grinning Ron Weasley, approaching the two of them on the bench. Sophie closed her book, her freckled face breaking into a wide grin.

“Hi, Soph,” Ron greeted her, smacking a loud kiss on her cheek before turning towards Harry.

“No kisses for me, thanks,” Harry joked and Ron rolled his eyes and grabbed him in a quick hug.

“You break my heart, mate,” he replied before pulling away. “No Hermione yet?”

“Speak of the devil and she shall appear,” came a voice from the left, and they all turned to find Hermione walking towards them from the other side of the fountain. She greeted them all, exchanging a kiss on the cheek with Sophie and quick, one-armed hugs with Ron and Harry.

“So, shall we?” she asked, gesturing towards the fireplaces.

“Where are we going?” Harry asked.

“I thought the Leaky, as usual?”

“Can we try somewhere else today?” asked Sophie. “The Leaky Cauldron’s food always makes me want to take a nap afterwards.”

“Let’s do Gastro Gnome on Horizont,” said Ron at once. “They have the best smoked turkey sandwiches.”

He spoke so decisively it was clear there was no room to argue, so the four of them made their way to the exit of the Ministry, since it was easier to Apparate to Horizont Alley than to Floo. Concentrating on the Apparation Point by the intersection of Horizont and Carkitt Market, Harry felt the familiar unpleasant pulling sensation before it vanished and he blinked twice as his friends all appeared around him.

The gnome-themed restaurant was only a few blocks away so they didn’t have to walk far before they were inside and seated in a cosy corner booth. It was only once they were handed menus that Harry realized how hungry he was.

“This basil and garlic pasta salad sounds good,” Hermione mused, eyes running over the menu. “Though Breath-Freshening Charms don’t work as well on garlic and I doubt my colleagues will be pleased with me coming back to work smelling like it.”

Sophie chuckled.

“Yesterday I got back from my lunch break to assist a Healer with a miscast _bombarda._ He had the poor bloke’s blood and viscera and intestines all over his robes. I’d take garlic breath any day.”

“Eugh,” Ron made a disgusted face. “None of that at lunch, please.”

Sophie just rolled her eyes. 

“Please, as if your job isn’t full of the same kind of horror stories.”

Ron considered this and then grinned widely.

“Had a suspect Splinch himself trying to run from us last month. Left his ear, three toes, and, er, his… _bits_ behind. Actually _turned_ _himself_ _in_ to the Ministry just so he could get everything reattached.”

Hermione crinkled her nose, while Sophie snorted.

“What about you, Harry?” Ron asked. “Still have kids vomiting on you?”

“That was only one time!” cried Harry, defensively, but Ron was grinning at him, clearly taking the piss.

“Lovely,” Hermione said, in a disdainful tone, but she too was smiling.

They had once tried to institute a ‘no work talk’ rule for when they got together, but for people who worked as many hours as they did, it was an almost impossible task.

They did often end up at an impasse, though, as Hermione was restricted from talking about a lot of her work, Ron couldn’t discuss active cases, and Sophie couldn’t break Healer-patient confidentiality, even as a Mediwitch.

“I applied for less hours at Keswary this fall,” Harry said. He was going to have to tell them at some point, better to just get it over with quickly. He didn’t expect a negative reaction—quite the opposite, he knew that Hermione had been in agreement with Rhiannon about him taking some more time off ever since his breakdown.

“That’s great, Harry!” Hermione said, leaning into his side and squeezing his arm.

“I’m jealous,” Sophie said, but shot him a cheeky smile.

“Do you know how many classes you’ll be teaching?” Ron asked.

“Not yet, but I get the schedules on Friday,” Harry replied, leaning back as the waitress arrived, so she could Levitate their drinks over to them. Harry wrapped a hand around the cold bottle of Butterbeer gratefully, the condensation a welcome relief from the scorching weather that was keeping everyone hot and sweaty.

Ron suddenly let out a groan.

“ _Friday,_ ” he started, but the waitress let out a little cough, indicating she was waiting to take their orders.

After they had all put in their food orders, Harry looked back at Ron, questioningly.

“What were you saying about Friday?”

“Oh, nothing, just…” Ron gave a heavy sigh. “They’ve got us on Death Eater clean-up and the reports are due on Friday.”

“Death Eater clean-up? Again?” Harry asked, incredulous. “Who’s even left?”

“No one, that’s the thing. Rookwood was confirmed to be in Croatia, who we’ve got no extradition treaty with, so I suspect the Witch Watchers or even some of you lot,” he waved vaguely at Hermione, to indicate the Unspeakables, “are responsible for him now. Dolohov was caught last year, you remember, and there isn’t really anyone else. Robards keeps saying something about Death Eater ‘sentiment’ spreading, but honestly, who’s doing the spreading? We haven’t heard bugger all about Death Eater resurgence, but everyone’s so bloody paranoid. It’s all just politics anyway, Robards reckons we look good if people think we’re out hunting Death Eaters and _that’s_ the reason they’re safe, and not because there aren’t any bleeding Death Eaters left.”

Harry was watching Hermione, carefully. He knew she often had to keep secrets for her job, but he liked to think he knew her well enough by now to be able to tell whether she knew something or not. She didn’t seem to be displaying any of the usual signs that she was keeping something to herself though—her eyebrows weren’t tense and mouth wasn’t twitching at the sides as if itching to speak. Instead, she was looking at Ron with a slightly amused but sympathetic expression.

“Robards thought he was going to get to retire after the war,” she said. “That’s why he volunteered to do apprenticeships at Hogwarts our last year. Well, that _and_ the fact that he was sure you were going to be one of his apprentices, Harry.”

She gave him a cheeky smile and Harry rolled his eyes.

“Yes, yes, I’ve let everyone down, truly the Boy who Lived to Disappoint,” he joked, trying to ignore the unpleasant voice in his head that was telling him there was more truth to the joke than he let on.

“Well, he should bloody retire then instead of sending us on wild goose chases every month,” Ron grumbled, lifting his glass of pumpkin juice to his lips.

“He’s contracted to stay on for the next four years, unless the Minister approves a replacement,” Hermione replied. Three years ago, either Ron or Harry would have questioned how she knew all that, but by now they were used to her having knowledge about the Ministry that surpassed even typical Hermione-level information.

“Is he trying to find one?” Sophie asked.

“It’s rumoured he’s been trying to snatch Oscar Hollowell from the Hit-Wizards,” said Hermione. “Keeps inviting him to his office to see how much bigger it is.”

“I don’t think anything short of death will get Hollowell away from the Hit-Wizards,” Sophie said, with a snort. “He’s in Mungo’s so often he practically has his own room, but he keeps going back into the field. Says he’s made for it. Honestly, I almost believe him; sometimes I can’t believe how he’s still standing what with the amount of spell damage he’s been through.”

“Hollowell’s a legend with the Hit-Wizards,” Ron said, sounding somewhat glum. “There’s no way he’d move to the Auror department, he’d be branded a traitor.”

“Guess you’re stuck with Robards, then,” Harry said, grinning slightly when Ron let out another dramatic groan.

Their food arrived shortly and they all dug in eagerly, too hungry to put much effort into maintaining conversation. Harry was grateful for Ron’s choice in venue, his chicken salad sandwich was delicious and he couldn’t imagine eating a hot meal on a day as warm as today.

“Mmm,” Hermione nodded happily, as she chewed and swallowed a bite of her basil and garlic pasta salad. “Definitely worth my colleagues whinging at me for the next two hours.”

Sophie laughed, but was interrupted by a sudden three sharp staccato tones. Her face immediately became serious and she pulled at the chain on her neck to reveal a locket-like necklace—standard issue for Healers, Mediwizards, and Mediwitches. It was flashing a soft yellow light.

“That’s a magical accident in the presence of a Muggle,” she said, with a resigned sigh. “I’ve got to go, before the Obliviators botch it all up again and I’m left with an Obliviated patient.”

She shoved the last of her sandwich in her mouth, pulled herself out of the booth, and smacked her mouth down on Ron’s head before dashing off with a quick, “See you later!” thrown over her shoulder.

Ron watched her go with a fond smile.

“Is she on call every weekend?” Harry asked, remembering how she had to leave lunch early last weekend as well.

“Nah,” Ron said, returning to his food. “She’s on her emergency rotation now, so it’s more often, but they’re putting her on poisons and antidote training next month.”

“I don’t know how she’s managing to study for her exams and work this many hours at the same time,” Hermione said, shaking her head incredulously. “Even with a Time Turner, that seems impossible.”

“Ron clearly has a type,” Harry said with a grin, completely anticipating the thwack on the back of his head that followed his remark.

“Says you, Mr I-Only-Date-Quidditch-Players,” countered Ron, eyebrows raised.

“Martin was only a reserve Quidditch player,” Harry mumbled, knowing it was a weak defence before the words even left his mouth. Sure enough, Ron let out a snicker of triumph.

He didn’t know if it could _really_ be classified as a type, seeing as he had only dated three people in the years since his Hogwarts days. Three years ago, he had had a brief sort-of-relationship with his old Gryffindor teammate, Alicia Spinnet, who played for the Wigtown Wanderers, after they had reconnected at a game of hers that he went to see. It had been nice, they had gotten along rather well, but there was a lack of any sort of spark between them, and Alicia had kindly ended things between them. They remained casual friends, with Harry occasionally going to see matches and Alicia sending letters and postcards now and then.

Then there had been Martin Penn, a former Ravenclaw who played reserve Beater for the Tornadoes. The public was still unaware that Harry’s romantic inclinations included men, and Martin himself had gone adorably wide-eyed when Harry had boldly—and very Gryffindorishly—asked him out. It had been going rather well, Harry thought, but Martin was apprehensive about the public finding out, as he was still in the closet himself. Harry and Martin both felt themselves not quite willing to come out for one another, and ultimately it was that realization that they weren’t committed enough to each other that caused them to go their separate ways, before even four months had passed. It wasn’t long after that that Harry had had his breakdown and had been forced to re-evaluate how he was living his life. Reforming his routine and his mentality regarding work had been hard and he had had more frequent sessions with Rhiannon during that time. He had known he was meant to be focusing on himself, on improving his situation and recovering, but it was also at this time that he became properly acquainted with Simone Wexler.

Simone Wexler, the youngest member of England’s National Quidditch Team and the star of the entire Quidditch world, a firecracker and fellow former Gryffindor a year below Harry’s, had barrelled into his life like a particularly violent Bludger.

Thinking back, he couldn’t even remember how it had started, because they didn’t seem to go through that awkward stage of starting to go out and warming up around each other. It had been as sudden as Apparition, as scorching as Fiendfyre, Harry had become tangled up in her like Devil’s Snare before he even realized what was happening. It had almost been easy, taking all that energy that he’d been putting into his work and channelling it into his relationship instead. It was easier than focusing on himself, than on trying to identify his negative thought patterns and self-destructive habits.

The media had exploded, of course—the Queen of Quidditch and the Chosen One, it was clearly a match made in heaven. They were plastered on every front page and the crazy part was that Harry didn’t even _mind_ , he was so wrapped up in Simone that it was like he had blinders on to the rest of the world.

It had been a wild, torrid love affair that was too good to be true, and eventually spiralled into chaos. Rhiannon warned Harry that he couldn’t have a healthy relationship if he didn’t know how to take care of himself and how to properly regulate his emotions. He insisted it wasn’t a problem, that he _was_ taking care of himself.

With Simone, it was always powerful, fervent, all-consuming, and Harry _knew_ it was _passion,_ but then the arguments would start, and they weren’t just disagreements; they were just as loud and fiery and intense and they would scream at each other until their voices were hoarse and their eyes red and swollen from crying. Harry couldn’t even remember what their fights were about anymore, his brain was so frazzled and exhausted at that point that it was like the memories had been damaged.

Surprisingly, it had been Ron that had snapped him out of it. They had been talking, Ron clearly worried over Harry’s dead tone of voice and utter lack of energy. Hermione had already expressed her worry over Harry’s relationship with Simone several times, so when Ron brought up her name, Harry had jumped to the defensive, insisting that they loved each other.

“I know you do, mate,” Ron had said, gently. “That’s why I think you should want to stop hurting each other.”

It had been agonizing, but the split had been what finally pushed Harry into taking his mental health seriously and working properly and honestly with Rhiannon in order to restructure his life in a way that was healthy.

There had been no bad blood between him and Simone, but every time he saw a picture of her, or caught her name in the papers, he felt a pang in his heart.

Loving her had felt like an earthquake, like the world would crumble into ruins around them at any second, like he would die if he couldn’t reach out and weave his fingers into her halo of curls, like if he dared take his eyes off of her the smoke would engulf him and he’d be lost in ash forever.

He didn’t think he would ever feel anything like that again.


	3. feel like a ghost in my own damn home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It had been a long time since someone had mentioned the war. If he were being honest, that was largely why the thought of Pansy had been so disconcerting.  
> She had been a part of his life before.  
> In his mind, Draco thought of his life in mostly two phases. There was before and there was after. He told himself that these referred to the war—before the war, and after the war. This made quite a lot of sense, as wars did tend to completely upend people’s lives.  
> But deep down, he knew that wasn’t really what they referred to. It wasn’t before the war. It was before he changed. Before his final year at Hogwarts, where everything he had gone through during the war started to tumble out of him and demand to be addressed. Before Violet, before Ollivander, before Luna, before wandmaking and before he had learned to be a real friend and before his Patronus.  
> Before Potter had kissed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the very long wait, but, as I'm sure you've noticed, the entire world is falling apart around us. It's been quite stressful here in my area of the world; we're on full-country lockdown, borders and airports are closed, and we're mandated to stay inside except for pharmacy and grocery visits, and we have to wear masks or we risk being arrested and fined. That is to say...it's insane. Hope you are all doing okay and hanging tight!  
> Reasonably long chapter, so I hope reading it kills some quarantine time for you! Chapter's moodboard is the lovely Astoria Greengrass and chapter title is from the song Heavy Shit by Blake Rose. Enjoy!

_August 19 – Sunday_

The season of Hogwarts students shopping for the new year had officially passed, with only a few late stragglers remaining. This would normally mean a calmer and less stressful time for Draco, however unfortunately, this was not the case.

Pansy’s return was weighing on his mind. He and his mother had made brief and somewhat stilted small talk with her when she had unexpectantly popped in through their fireplace, however she hadn’t lingered long. It seemed, in true Pansy fashion, she had simply wanted to make a dramatic entrance. She had kissed Draco’s cheeks and exclaimed that she’d be in touch before vanishing through the Floo once again. Draco, suddenly feeling exhausted, as if Pansy’s mere presence had drained him of all remaining energy, told Narcissa to double check the wards and who was able to come through their Floo before bidding her farewell and leaving as well.

Saturday had been the last real day of the shopping season, but it had already been winding down for days now. The next two weeks would still see a few last-minute students scrambling to get all their supplies, but in much smaller numbers. It hadn’t even been necessary to stay all day, but Draco had done so just in case.

Today, however, he didn’t even go into work.

He had been planning to, and was halfway through the breakfast Polkey had left for him when Elpis appeared at the window, a note tied to her leg.

“Finally,” Draco had murmured, getting up and opening the window to allow the eagle owl inside. “What have you got for me, darling?”

But when he had opened the note, he realized that it was not a response, but rather his own note that he had penned to Ollivander three days ago.

“Could you not find him?” he asked Elpis, though he heavily doubted it. He had had Elpis since he was eleven years old and she had never been unable to find a recipient before. Elpis hooted indignantly and pecked at Draco’s finger.

“Ow, alright, alright, I’m sorry,” he placated and Summoned the owl treats from the drawer in the kitchen where he kept them, and offered one to Elpis. “Here you go. I’d wager you’re rather tired then, aren’t you?”

After gobbling up the treat, Elpis hooted again and pushed her head against Draco’s fingers, and he automatically scratched softly.

“Alright, love, you go and get some rest. I’m going to Ollivander’s.”

So here he was, in what looked like the middle of nowhere, hiking up the hill atop which sat Ollivander’s house. It wasn’t colossal and intimidating like the Manor, but it was elegant, with tall white pillars and golden adornments around the windows. Draco had only been here once before, as most of their meetings were held in the store.

Once he reached the door, he rang the bell and waited, panting slightly at the uphill walk it had taken to get here. He didn’t have to wait long, as the large mahogany door swung open with a creak, and Draco was greeted with the sight of Ollivander’s house elf and a sense of relief rushed through him.

“Hello,” he said, politely. “I don’t know if you remember me, I’m—”

“Mr Draco Malfoy,” the elf cried, far louder than Draco expected. “Master Ollivander’s young apprentice, I remembers, I remembers!”

Draco was rather alarmed to see the elf’s eyes were large and red and she was practically wailing.

“Is everything alright?” he asked, racking his brain to try and remember the elf’s name. The elf just let out another cry.

“No, Mr Malfoy, sir, nothing is alright, I is not knowing what to do and no one is telling Tilly what to do!” The elf began twisting her ears in her hands, but it didn’t look like she was punishing herself, it seemed more to be out of anxiety.

“Tilly,” Draco spoke in a calm but firm voice that he had learned was most efficient when addressing distressed elves. “I’m here to help, please tell me what happened.”

“I is not knowing who to tell,” Tilly declared, as Draco finally stepped over the threshold and entered the house, ushering Tilly forward and closing the door behind him. “I is working for the Ollivander family for years and years, but Master Ollivander is having no family left, sir, and I is not knowing who to tell!”

“Tell what, Tilly?” Draco asked, his sense of urgency increasing. “What are you needing to tell? Where is Ollivander?”

The elf let out a pitiful cry as she exploded into tears.

“Master Ollivander is gone, sir, he is dead!”

* * *

_August 22 – Thursday_

The initial announcement had been in _The Quibbler._ Luna was the first person Draco spoke to about Ollivander’s death, after filing the official death report and sending Tilly to the House-Elf Reassignment Agency. He had come by her work, and waited as she finished with a client, who left with—for whatever reason—a dancing Bowtruckle tattooed on the back of his neck. She had clearly read his distress and took him right next door to The White Wyvern and ordered him a stiff drink.

Draco felt oddly numb, but he had a strong sense of trepidation, as he knew the despair would kick in sooner or later. He had downed his drink in a gulp and relayed the information to Luna.

Her voice had been sad, and Draco was reminded, horribly, of how Luna and Ollivander had grown close during their time imprisoned in the Manor’s dungeons during the war. But Luna had mainly been comforting him, speaking softly about how close she knew they had become and what a role model Ollivander had been to him. Draco felt like his head was buzzing.

Finally, Luna had asked if he had considered how he wanted to announce the news. Draco had turned to stare at her, wondering how the thought hadn’t occurred to him yet. Of course he would have to inform the public. He felt dread rise up in his stomach at the thought, which Luna seemed to sense, so she offered to write up a piece for _The Quibbler_ and make sure it made the next issue.

It was released on Tuesday, and by the next day, it seemed like the entire Wizarding World had heard the news. Luna’s piece had been lovely, writing about how Ollivander had been an staple in the wizarding community, a talented and wise man who remembered every wand he ever sold and cared deeply for his craft. Draco had felt something in his chest crack when he’d read the closing words of the article:

_Garrick Ollivander leaves behind a loyal house elf, Tilly; a gifted and devoted fellow wandmaker, Draco Malfoy, who carries on his legacy; and a community that will mourn his loss for years to come._

On Thursday, Draco returned to work. He had started feeling a sharp pain deep inside of him, as he sat and tried to digest the reality of never being able to sit with the old wandmaker again, and he decided he needed to distract himself so that he didn’t fall apart. Instead of Flooing directly into his workshop, he decided to take the longer way, Apparating to the designated Apparition point near the mermaid fountain in Carkitt Market and walking the rest of the way. The air was warm but breezy, so Draco had tried to take his time, but it wasn’t a long walk and soon he was approaching the front of Ollivander’s. He felt a heaviness in his chest with every step, and wondered if he could just hole up in the workshop and do paperwork instead of opening the store to customers.

“Malfoy! Oi, Malfoy!”

Draco let his eyes fall closed as he stopped in his tracks. He knew that voice all too well, and it never bode well.

“Macmillan,” he said, as politely as he could, turning to face him. Ernie Macmillan, in comparison to Dean Thomas, was a far less tolerable employee of The Daily Prophet. He had been working there as long as Draco had been at Ollivander’s, but he was still merely an intern, and he was one of the most persistent people Draco had the displeasure of knowing.

As a former Slytherin, Draco could admire ambition in a person, but Macmillan’s lack of charm and integrity made him a distinctly unlikeable character. When Draco had begun working at Ollivander’s shop after Hogwarts, Macmillan had been one of the several Daily Prophet reporters who had trailed after Draco, waiting for him to engage in some untoward behaviour that they could write a nasty article about.

Even after Draco had somewhat proven he wasn’t a walking headline waiting to happen, Macmillan had hung about, eventually switching tactics and trying to act like he and Draco were old friends simply because they had been in the same year at Hogwarts, in the hopes that this would encourage Draco to provide him some sort of juicy information.

Macmillan was chasing a career-making story and he seemed convinced that Draco was going to be the one to give it to him.

Draco put up with Macmillan, because he knew that a toe out of line would result in more of those ridiculous and unfounded theory pieces that he was reverting back to his Death Eater ways, or that Lucius had somehow possessed him from Azkaban, or that he was imbuing his wands with Dark Magic, or whatever nonsense they could come up with.

He had learned a long time ago that the Malfoy name was no longer one to loudly boast and throw around, and he had gone from a boy with his chin up in the air to a man who kept his head down.

“Don’t think I could get a word, do you?” Macmillan asked, a quill materializing in his hand.

“What about?”

“Ollivander, of course!” Macmillan’s voice was aristocratic and lilted, giving away his pureblood status easily, and the fact that Draco knew his own voice was similar only made his annoyance at Macmillan rise.

“I’ve said all I intend to say to reporters at the Quibbler,” Draco said, in a practiced level tone, turning to walk up the stairs to his shop.

Macmillan followed him, eagerly.

“You were only quoted as saying Ollivander was _‘an esteemed and irreplaceable wizard that the world will never forget.’_ Do you have anything else to say about his death?”

Draco felt himself stiffen. The blasé way Macmillan was speaking about Ollivander rubbed him the wrong way.

“No,” he said, hoping Macmillan would just accept defeat and leave him alone.

“Weren’t you the one who found him?” Macmillan pressed.

“No,” Draco repeated. “His house elf did.”

“But you were the first wizard to know of his death, weren’t you?”

“Yes,” said Draco, shortly. “What is the relevance of this?”

“How would you respond to rumours that you had something to do with his death?”

In a different time, Draco would’ve already had his wand out and would be midway through casting the nastiest hex he knew. Now, however, he settled for clenching his jaw tightly and curling his fists at his sides.

“Nice try, Macmillan,” he said, dryly. “I have to get to work.”

He withdrew his wand and, resisting the urge to shoot a Stinging Hex at Macmillan, opened the shop with a quick spell. As soon as he was inside, he closed the door behind him, and cast the curtains closed.

The store would not be open to customers today.

There were several owls waiting on his window sill when Draco entered his workshop and Elpis was sitting on the inside, looking distinctly ruffled and staring at the other owls.

He walked over and gave her a light pat before opening the window and allowing the owls to fly in. They each dropped a letter on his writing table before gathering around Elpis’s cage and squawking loudly. Elpis herself was still by the window, still watching the other owls.

Draco went over to the cabinet to open the drawer with the owl treats and grabbed a handful. After dropping them by the cage, which quieted the birds, he went to sit at his table and began opening the letters. A perfect white chrysanthemum fell out of the first one he opened and he caught it before seeing the familiar handwriting.

_Draco,_

_I just read the news in the Quibbler. I am so, so sorry about Ollivander. I know how much he meant to you, and how much you looked up to him. It’s an immense loss to everyone who knew him, and you were the closest thing he had to a son. I can’t imagine how you’re feeling. Let me know if you need anything at all, I’m here for you always._

_Daphne also sends her condolences and her love. The flower is from her garden, she said you would know what it meant._

_All my love,_

_Violet_

A sad smile pulled at Draco’s lips as he read through Violet’s letter and he felt a rush of affection for his best friend. He was so grateful to have Violet in his life—and Daphne as well. He Summoned a glass vial from his shelf, one of the ones he usually used for ingredients, filled it with an Aguamenti, and placed the chrysanthemum in it, setting it by the top left corner of his writing table. Daphne had been right, he knew what it meant. White was typical for a sympathy flower, and chrysanthemums symbolised longevity and optimism, which Draco knew Ollivander would have appreciated.

He squeezed his eyes shut tightly, suddenly overwhelmed and feeling something heavy in his throat. He reached blindly for the next letter and blinked several times before regarding the envelope. The Malfoy seal was unmistakable, and his mother’s perfect handwriting even more so.

_My darling Draco,_

_Words may not suffice in a circumstance such as this one, but I would be remiss not to extend my deepest condolences. Mr Ollivander was a blessing in our lives, and I am beyond indebted to him for the role he served as your advisor and father figure these past few years. He was a man of distinguished humanity, and I know no one will miss him more than you._

_Nothing can prepare you for such a loss, it comes like a swift wind and can knock you off your feet. I send all my comfort and love, darling, and I am only a Floo call away when you need me._

_Love,_

_Mother_

Draco clutched at the letter until he realized the parchment was crinkling in his tight clasp and released it to fall onto the table. He hurriedly grabbed at the next letter and began to read.

They were all condolence letters, the next being from Theo, Blaise, and Cordelia. He managed to get through them all, but by the end of Cordelia’s letter, his vision was blurry and he knew that the days of detachment from shock had passed. He folded up Cordelia’s letter with shaky hands, set it atop the stack of the rest, and then buried his face in his hands, allowing himself to cry.

* * *

_August 25 - Sunday_

By Saturday, Draco had felt well and truly cried out, and rather exhausted from it all as well. He considered writing to Violet and telling her he would be absent on Sunday—he knew she’d understand—but after three days of holing up with his grief by himself, he felt the need to socialise, to see his friends. The effort it would take would feel gargantuan, but he knew he’d be glad he went. He didn’t feel much like dressing up, but put on a pair of black robes and dragonhide boots and after a glance in the mirror, decided he looked smart, the mirror concurring with a chirpy _“elegant and classy!”_

Scooping out about half a handful of Floo powder from the bowl on the mantelpiece, he stepped into his fireplace, said, “the Greenhouse,” in a clear tone, and dropped the powder into the fire.

He wasn’t sure who originally came up with the nickname for Violet and Daphne’s home, but it had stuck and eventually they had even changed the official Floo address to reflect the moniker. Draco rolled his eyes about it and ribbed Violet, but in truth it was a fitting name. It was a nod to Daphne’s surname, of course, but also to her love of gardening and Herbology, and Violet’s name being what it was fit quite nicely as well.

Draco stepped out of the fireplace in the Greenhouse’s sitting room, a vast and beautifully decorated room shared with the kitchen, where several of his friends were already congregated.

“Draco!” Daphne was the first to greet him, enveloping him in a hug before he could even get a proper look at her. She pulled back slightly, her hands holding onto his forearms and looked at him with a caring expression, her blue eyes filled with concern.

“Are you alright?” she asked, gently.

He smiled at her.

“I’m alright,” he reassured her. “Thank you for the flower.”

Her face lit up in a beam, and against the pale golden hair framing her face, almost made her look like she was glowing.

“You look lovely,” he added, honestly. Daphne, as always, looked elegant, in a lace white dress and a thin gold chain holding a delicate pendant in the shape of a daisy around her neck.

“And you look as handsome as ever,” she responded easily, brushing a hand across the chains that decorated the shoulders of his robes.

“Are you flirting with my girlfriend, Draco?” called Violet from over in the kitchen.

“I wouldn’t dare!” Draco called back, extricating himself from Daphne’s hold of him with another warm smile at her, and striding over to the kitchen to properly greet his best friend.

Violet wrapped her arms around him and gave him a tight squeeze.

“Are you certain you’re alright to be here?” she murmured in his ear, standing up on her tiptoes to reach him.

He nodded against her neck, already feeling better after getting to see her. Pulling away, he gave her a smile.

“I needed to get out of the house,” he said, truthfully. “And I love seeing you all, you know that.”

“Yes, you’re a great big sap, aren’t you?” she said, her big lips spreading into a wide grin. As always after the summer, there was a small smattering of freckles across her nose and cheeks, and they always made her look younger than she was.

He decided to ignore her teasing comment.

“Do you need any help?” he asked, gesturing to the steaming pots behind her. She waved him away.

“No, everything’s done. We’re just waiting until everyone gets here before we get started.”

“Who are we missing?” Draco asked, looking back over the sitting room to do a quick headcount.

“Theo and Cordelia, and Laurel’s called to say she’s on her way.”

Draco nodded. He still didn’t fully understand how Violet’s telephone worked, but she likened it to two-way mirrors and Floo-calling, and he knew enough by now to know it was the preferred method of communication for Muggles and Squibs.

Draco made his way back to the sitting room to greet everyone there. Daphne had laid out lavender scones as an appetiser, with lavender she had grown in her garden, and Draco took one before settling on the sofa beside Blaise, who greeted him with a firm clap on the back and an, “alright, old boy?”

Astoria was sitting across from him and he reached out to take her hand and press his lips to it briefly.

“How are you doing, Astoria?” he asked after she leaned back into her chair, smoothing down the soft blue tulle of her skirt.

“Very well, thank you, Draco,” she replied, smiling. Despite her brown eyes and brown hair, Astoria visibly resembled her sister; they had the same full lips and deep-set eyes, the same high cheekbones and distinguished eyebrows. There was something soft about them both, something gentle in the face, though Draco knew better than to be fooled by their beauty—both Greengrass girls were fierce and formidable women.

“What have you been up to lately?” he asked, but just as he did, the Floo roared to life again and out stepped Cordelia Rigsby, followed at once by Theo. Draco rose at the sight of his friend, knowing he had lost Astoria’s attention for the rest of the night.

The younger Greengrass was absolutely besotted with Theodore, to the knowledge of everyone who laid eyes on her. Her eyelashes fluttered over those wide brown eyes and her voice softened into caramel sweet tones when she spoke to him. Daphne would often roll her eyes and describe how Astoria would wax poetic about the “intensity of his eyebrows” and the “sharpness of his jaw line.”

However, Astoria never actually tried to chat Theo up, because she adored Cordelia and was far too respectful of her to shamelessly flirt with her boyfriend in front of her.

Astoria’s admiration of Cordelia sometimes baffled Draco, within whom jealousy coursed as indisputably as blood, but he was glad the two women got along so well and it wasn’t a source of conflict between them.

Cordelia Rigsby was an impressive woman, and Draco liked to remind Theo how she was far too good for him, which he was more than well aware of. She had been a child prodigy at languages, and had attended the Euro-Glyph School of Extraordinary Languages instead of taking the traditional route at Hogwarts. Draco thought this had been a good decision on the part of her parents, as Hogwarts didn’t offer any language classes, something that Narcissa criticised on occasion, as Draco’s French was more than a little rusty.

Cordelia was also a skilled violinist, and spoke of music as though it were another of her many languages. Draco had heard her play once, at a formal event the Greengrass family had held, and it was like the music just seemed to flow out of her, as natural as breathing. And then, of course, there was her baking, which she swore was nothing more than a hobby, but which always tasted like perfection to Draco’s taste buds.

She was, all in all, far too talented for her age, and Draco often teased that if he were into women, he’d have snatched her from Theo long ago.

He leaned in to kiss her cheeks as they said hello, her springy curls brushing against Draco’s face as he did so.

“I brought you some strawberry toffee,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling as she pressed a glass container into his hands.

“You are an angel among mortals,” he declared.

It wasn’t long after that Laurel arrived, coming in through the front entrance as she had driven in her car. She was constantly goading Draco about coming on a drive with her, but as progressive as Draco had gotten about the Muggle world, he drew the line at that metal death-trap.

“Like stepping into a fireplace sounds safe,” Laurel would always say, rolling her eyes.

The first few times Laurel had attended their dinners had been awkward. Draco had already been acquainted with her from before, through Violet, but not everyone was, and the group of wizards and witches felt somewhat unsure how to act around a Squib.

Laurel had seemed used to it, and wore an amused expression on her face at their discomfort. After cracking a few jokes about how she refused to help with cleaning up since the rest of them could do it in a matter of seconds, people had loosened up slightly, and she was such a bright and witty presence, it made her impossible not to like. She was very much like her sister, so naturally Draco liked her, and they often engaged in a teasing back-and-forth about the Wizarding versus Muggle ways of doing certain things. She often won these little arguments too and Violet claimed to be keeping track of the score between them.

Everyone greeted her warmly when she entered, having all become accustomed to her presence at these dinners, and after saying hello to her sister, Violet began herding them all into the dining room, situated near the front entrance. The dining table was elegantly set, with a jet black tablecloth and white and silver dishes, two tall silver candles burning at the centre.

Violet and Daphne had become excellent hosts thanks to these dinners. Over the years, the food had only improved and, as the guest list expanded, even the décor had gotten classier. It terrified Draco to think about, but they were almost proper adults now, having _dinner parties,_ which was partially why Draco continued to refer to them as Slytherin reunions. 

Violet and Daphne went around the table, serving everyone and offering drinks, and Blaise began chatting about his most recent trip to Spain and Draco sat back in his seat, observing his friends and feeling glad he had come.

“Wine, Draco?” Daphne offered, holding a decanter of deep red liquid aloft. Draco squinted at it, unsure if the slightest sparkling was due to the light or the wine itself.

“Goblin-made?” he guessed.

She flashed him a beauteous smile.

“Of course.”

“Please,” he said, and waited as she carefully poured before lifting the glass and taking a whiff. He could always count on Daphne to have these lovely little surprises that reminded him of home. He supposed it was largely due to the fact that they were both raised in traditional pureblood families.

Violet and Daphne continued to fuss until Blaise insisted they finally sit.

“Ladies, we have more than we could possibly even need, please sit so we can start this delicious meal.”

“You’re a sweet-talker, Blaise,” Violet said, smirking, but took a seat, Daphne following suit next to her.

“Only in English, unfortunately,” he said, with a rueful smile. “And I will assure you that Spanish women do not find our language nearly as attractive as we find theirs.”

“Don’t even try and pretend like you didn’t have the time of your life there anyway,” Violet smirked.

“And I doubt very much you lacked success with women, English or not,” said Theo, his tone implying it was not exactly a compliment. Blaise flashed him a wide grin.

“Ah, Theodore, you know me so well.”

“Unfortunately,” clipped back Theo, his lips were twitching.

“Be polite, Theo,” Cordelia said, though her expression was rather amused as well.

“Oh, don’t you mind old Theodore, dear Cordelia, he’s just jealous that I spent the last two weeks in Barcelona while he was stuck here brewing Pepper-Up.”

Theo just shook his head, smiling incredulously.

“Some of us have jobs, you know,” Draco jumped in. He always forgot how fun it was to wind each other up the way they did, especially with Blaise. It was almost a game to them.

“I’ve never heard of such a thing,” Blaise said, his nose in the air.

“Disregarding these idiots,” Violet cut in, looking at Cordelia, “I heard you landed the secretary job you wanted, congratulations!”

Cordelia beamed.

“Thank you! It’s mostly paperwork, to be honest, but I’m working directly under Mr Buchanan, so I get to be present and involved during a lot of the trade negotiations, which is fascinating. Translating in person and on the fly is very different to what I was doing before, which was mainly the translation of documents and memos.”

The topic of work kept them chatting for a while, in between bites of roasted quail, sips of wine, and gushing compliments towards the cooks and hostesses. Theo and Draco briefly discussed the new botanica that opened up directly beside Prospero’s and whether any of their products made them competition. Violet and Cordelia, who both worked in the Ministry, mentioned some organisational changes that were being implemented, and both complained over the new inter-department memo system. Like Blaise, neither Daphne nor Astoria worked, however Daphne was quite dedicated to the meticulous garden she kept and Astoria still lived at home, which meant her parents were quite determinedly parading her around at any social gathering they believed could dredge up a suitable match.

It was a bit of a touchy topic, as Daphne felt insulted that her parents would imply she had failed them by being in a relationship with Violet, while Astoria sometimes became frustrated at Daphne, as—despite knowing she wasn’t to blame—it was because of her that the Greengrasses were so insistently pushing on Astoria finding a partner.

Daphne kept her lips tightly pursed as Astoria bemoaned the latest unsavoury meeting.

“And Mrs Flint kept trying to shove Marcus at me all night, and he just leered at me and trod all over my toes when we danced, it was _horrible_.”

Laurel snorted.

“I can’t believe they’re still making you go to _balls,_ how ridiculously old-fashioned is that?”

“It’s a pureblood thing,” Theo explained, waving his hand. “Not even all the families do it anymore, but some are sticklers for tradition and it’s how things were done in their day.”

“I’m glad Mum and Dad aren’t making you do that,” Laurel said to Violet, a cheeky grin spreading across her face. “Although I’d kill to see you in a corset and petticoat.”

A moment later, she yelped and winced, and Violet wore a triumphant expression, having clearly successfully kicked her shin under the table.

“Mum and Dad have known I was a lesbian since I was ten years old,” Violet said, light-heartedly, but Draco noticed how she discreetly placed a hand over Daphne’s on the table and squeezed it. Daphne offered her a warm smile.

“There is that,” Laurel admitted. “If only I weren’t a Squib, then _you’d_ be the family disappointment.”

Laurel often said things like that, in somewhat of a self-deprecating way. The first few times she had, it had been met with immense awkwardness and nothing but the scraping sound of silverware against ceramic.

But now, Blaise just laughed.

“Family, eh?” he said, as if that summed it all up, making a dramatic flourishing movement with his hand. Draco’s eyes, however, were on Theo, sitting across from him, and without meaning to, he found himself witnessing another private moment of comfort between two people in love.

Cordelia was looking at him with warm affection pooling in her brown eyes, as if checking that he were alright. Theo, who had lost the last member of his family when his grandmother had died a year ago, smiled reassuringly at her, and Draco quickly looked away, feeling like he had infringed on something personal.

“Speaking of,” Blaise went on. “How’s your mother doing, Draco? Mine was asking after her the other day.”

“Oh, she’s well, thank you,” Draco replied. “She’s gotten back in touch with her sister, which I think has made her much happier lately.”

Draco’s mind went back to the last time he saw his mother for dinner, the soft smile that she had worn and the twinkle in her eye when she had mentioned Andromeda. That had been a nice evening. Well. Until…

“Say,” he said, suddenly remembering what had been occupying his mind before Ollivander’s tragic death. “Has Pansy visited any of you?”

The table went rather quiet.

“Pansy Parkinson?” Theo asked.

“Do you know another Pansy?” Draco raised his eyebrows.

“She wrote to me,” chimed in Blaise. “About a month or two back. Something about new beginnings and catching up over drinks. Typical Pansy drivel. I disregarded it. She’s in France, isn’t she? Been there since after the war.”

Draco felt the quail shift uncomfortably in his stomach. It had been a long time since someone had mentioned the war. If he were being honest, that was largely why the thought of Pansy had been so disconcerting.

She had been a part of his life _before._

In his mind, Draco thought of his life in mostly two phases. There was _before_ and there was _after._ He told himself that these referred to the war—before the war, and after the war. This made quite a lot of sense, as wars did tend to completely upend people’s lives.

But deep down, he knew that wasn’t really what they referred to. It wasn’t before the war. It was before he changed. Before his final year at Hogwarts, where everything he had gone through during the war started to tumble out of him and demand to be addressed. Before Violet, before Ollivander, before Luna, before wandmaking and before he had learned to be a real friend and before his Patronus.

Before Potter had kissed him.

“Draco?”

He blinked, and found his dinner companions all looking at him.

“You alright?” Blaise asked, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Draco said at once, feeling slightly embarrassed at spacing off like that. “Well, Pansy popped through the Manor’s Floo last week.”

“What?” Daphne exclaimed.

“She’s _here?_ ” gasped Violet. “In Britain?”

“Sorry,” interrupted Cordelia. “But who’s Pansy?”

Draco stared at her as if suddenly realising she was there. Laurel and Astoria also looked rather confused. Astoria, of course, knew to whom they were referring to, but also didn’t quite _know_ Pansy the way the rest of them did.

“She went to school with us,” Violet provided, hesitantly. “She was…”

She trailed off, and Draco knew that this was his story to tell. He was… _responsible_ for Pansy, for lack of a better term, especially because they had only encouraged each other.

“She was a bully,” Draco said. “Like me. We were both cruel and petty and vindictive and while I made a habit of only picking on Gryffindors, Pansy didn’t have the same House loyalty, shall we say.”

“Wait, I think I remember her,” Laurel said, perking up in her seat slightly and looking at Violet. “You used to complain about a girl in your year all the time. Said she knew you were gay and used to tell all the boys you fancied them so they’d bother you.”

Violet grimaced.

“That’s Pansy,” she said.

“She didn’t return to repeat her seventh year,” Draco went on. “She moved to France.”

“How come?” asked Cordelia.

Draco felt a little prickle down his left forearm, the one that he only really felt when talking about the war.

“Pansy was never a Death Eater,” he said in a quiet voice. “But she…shared some of the sentiments.”

“She followed the Carrows’ instruction a little too easily,” Blaise said. Unlike Draco, Blaise had spent their official seventh year in Hogwarts along with Pansy. “Not like…Crabbe,” he paused before continuing, “or Goyle, mind you. Not enthusiastically. She didn’t _want_ to hurt anyone. She was afraid of being hurt herself, we all were. It was just…”

He looked at Draco, somewhat pleadingly. Draco sighed. Sometimes he wondered why his friends expected it to be easier for him to talk about the war.

Potter had said that to him once too, in one of their private sessions back at Hogwarts. They had bonded over it. Over how deeply entrenched they had both been.

“The real reason she had to leave Britain was because she tried to give Potter up,” he said. Once the name was out there, it was out there, and he almost sensed a collective holding of breath around the table.

Somehow—probably thanks to the intervention of Violet—his friends all knew better than to speak Potter’s name in his presence. He was impossible to avoid—famous as he was—but Draco had worked hard over the last few years to keep that name as far from his life as he could.

Now, however, there was no avoiding it.

“During the Battle of Hogwarts,” he went on. He made eye contact with Laurel, and surprisingly, found that it calmed him. It was self-centred and would sound horrendous to anyone that didn’t know them, but his friendship with Laurel sometimes helped reduce his guilt. It reminded him that he wasn’t the same person he had been during the war.

“The D—Voldemort had just announced that he wouldn’t harm anyone in the castle, as long as they handed over Potter.”

Draco could feel his voice starting to tremble slightly.

“You were there, Blaise, I hadn’t even entered the castle yet,” he snapped, suddenly, his stomach lurching violently.

Blaise looked shocked for a moment, but valiantly saved face.

“Right, yes. Well, Potter was standing there, and Pansy sort of just…pointed at him, and insisted that we do it. Mind you, I don’t entirely blame her,” he said, shrugging when the rest of them looked at him curiously. “We thought they were going to come in and murder us all, and what did we care for Potter? One life for all of ours? But, of course, it wasn’t the smartest move, especially considering how loyal most of the student body was to McGonagall and to Potter. Not to mention how she had been treating rulebreakers.”

“It was like a reputational Dark Mark,” Draco said, a wild and probably somewhat insane smile growing on his face. His friends all turned their heads to stare at him in shock. He merely shrugged. “I mean that it marked her as a traitor and as a Death Eater sympathiser. She couldn’t stay in Britain after that. She certainly couldn’t have come back to Hogwarts. The only reason I could was because Potter spoke at my trial. It didn’t matter that his reasons for doing so were rubbish ideas of what it means to be _noble_ that Dumbledore had shoved down his throat for years. It gave me a bargaining chip. Pansy had no such thing.”

There was a long stretch of silence that followed his words.

“Sounds like she sucked,” Laurel finally said, a half-smirk on her face, and the tension that was weighing over the table snapped like a twig.

Suddenly everyone was laughing—genuine and absolutely strange laughter. Even Draco couldn’t help but fall into it as Blaise chuckled by his side.

“So she’s really back then?” Violet asked, as the laughter slowly faded around the table. “Why?”

Draco shrugged.

“Knowing Pansy, she won’t make us wait long to find out.”


	4. we started out as strangers, now we're strangers again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Making the decision that he was going to go and see Draco had been incredibly difficult in and of itself, so it was no surprise that actually executing that decision had Harry so nervous he felt his palms sweating.
> 
> He had to remind himself twice that he had willingly walked towards his death in the Forbidden Forest and that, in comparison, walking down Diagon Alley towards Draco Malfoy should be no trouble at all just to get near Ollivanders.
> 
> He could already feel himself slowing down as he walked up from the Apparition point near Charmed Chocolates, his gut clenching and unclenching with anxiety over what he would say. He had barely slept last night, countless possibilities for how everything could go wrong flashing in his mind. Draco could hex him. Or throw him out of the shop. Or pick a fight. Or ignore him completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter has been kicking my ass for three months. also I've had a lot going on but whatever, point is it's here now! hope you enjoy.
> 
> chapter title is from Strangers by FLETCHER. chapter moodboard is Hermione.

[ ](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186693494@N02/49657044557/in/dateposted-public/)

_August 26 – Monday_

Harry entered Grimmauld Place to hear mumbling coming from the room next to the front entrance. He poked his head through the doorway to find Hermione seated at the dining table, poring over a vast array of parchment that looked blank to Harry, but that he knew had encrypted information on it.

“You’re home,” he said, surprise in his voice. Hermione’s head snapped up, her hair bouncing slightly with the movement.

“Oh, Harry,” she said, a small smile appearing on her face. “Yes, doing some work from home on this project.”

Knowing he wouldn’t get much more if he pressed, he merely nodded.

“Want me to make dinner?”

Hermione’s eyes widened slightly.

“Only if…I mean, if _you_ feel like it,” she said, slowly. Harry grinned at her. That was Hermione’s way of saying _“yes, please!”_

“You haven’t eaten all day, have you?” he said, raising his eyebrows at her. She looked slightly guilty.

“I had an apple in the morning,” she mumbled, casting her eyes away.

“I’ll get started on something,” said Harry. “I’ll come get you when it’s ready.”

“You’re wonderful, Harry, thank you,” said Hermione, before returning her attention to the parchment in front of her. Harry left the room, closing the door behind him to give Hermione her privacy.

The kitchen was primarily Harry’s domain, as Hermione had never become much of a cook. She joked that after having been responsible for their meals while they were out hunting Horcruxes, any appeal it had had completely vanished. Harry, on the other hand, found that he quite enjoyed it.

He had never really liked cooking for the Dursleys, so for his first year out of Hogwarts, he avoided the kitchen. But he felt terrible that Kreacher was cooking and no matter how many times he told him he didn’t have to, the old elf would just scowl and insist that biscuits and tea weren’t a proper meal and that “Master doesn’t understand an elf’s duties to his family” and that “Kreacher cannot allow Master to starve himself out of stubbornness”, so finally Harry had acquainted himself with the kitchen and began cooking some simple meals for himself, discovering along the way that he was actually rather enjoying himself.

He found it relaxing, the sound of sizzling oil and water boiling, the smell of onions frying and bread baking, and he felt himself almost fall into the routine of it with a sense of comforting familiarity that he didn’t often feel. He realised that cooking wasn’t actually the part he disliked growing up, but rather the shrill nagging of Aunt Petunia following him around the kitchen, and—perhaps most importantly—the fact that he, more often than not, had not been allowed to _eat_ what he had cooked.

Kreacher was in the kitchen when Harry descended the stairs, with a veritable _mountain_ of dandelions sitting on the table in front of him.

“Kreacher…I—what?” Harry gaped, at a loss for words.

Kreacher was an odd elf, and Harry frequently could not understand his behaviour, but once in a while, he would just do something _exceptionally_ strange and Harry would be bewildered as to what to do about it. It often had something to do with food, and Harry had deduced that Kreacher was trying to _help_ him with his cooking.

At first, he had been irritated, especially after he had spent an entire afternoon trying to figure out how to get a _live pig_ out of his kitchen, but after grousing to Hermione about it, she’d softly reminded him that normally house elves did all of the cooking in their household, and that it was probably difficult for Kreacher to restrain himself and let Harry do all of the cooking.

Harry had felt sufficiently scolded and guilty and had vowed to have more patience with the old elf. After a stern talk in which he made clear Kreacher was not to bring any more farm animals into the house, he agreed that the elf could help him with his cooking and have a bigger part in the kitchen. Since then, the number of bizarre incidents had become few and far between. In comparison to the pig, a hundred or so pounds of dandelions wasn’t much to complain about it, but still, the question remained—

“Why?” he asked, staring at the yellow flowers and how they towered over the tiny elf that stood beside them.

“Kreacher has been noticing Master using many herbs in his cooking, Kreacher has brought some for Master to use.”

 _This is what I get for making homemade pesto,_ Harry thought to himself. He took a deep breath, not bothering to mention that dandelions weren’t technically an herb and that he had never cooked with them before and had no idea what to do with them.

“Can we put a Stasis Charm on them or something? I can’t possibly use them all before they dry up.”

“Kreacher has made sure they will stay fresh,” the elf said, then muttering, “Master thinks Kreacher is thoughtless, but Kreacher is not.”

“Thanks, Kreacher,” Harry said, with a sigh, because it was _him_ that was constantly forgetting about elf magic, not Kreacher. “I’m going to make some dinner now. Could you get me some potatoes from the pantry?”

The pantry was five steps away and Harry could easily get them himself, but he figured he should be giving Kreacher more to do, lest he come home tomorrow and find his kitchen swimming in more flowers.

Kreacher was eager to assist and returned promptly with Harry’s potatoes. They worked quietly and peacefully, Kreacher fetching and chopping items while Harry began to boil water and thaw some meat. Soon the room was filling up with a pleasant aroma and Harry felt tension he didn’t even know was there release from his shoulders.

He’d been somewhat on edge since he had received his fall work schedule on Friday. He was only teaching four classes in the fall, and while he knew that this was what he had asked for and what he needed to be doing, it still felt _wrong_ somehow. He still felt this pushy guilt inside of him, as if he were running away or letting someone down. He kept trying to dismiss it, to reassure himself that all of his friends were in support of it and that Rhiannon had encouraged it and that it was the right thing to do, but nothing seemed to help.

Harry went back upstairs to the dining room to let Hermione know dinner was ready. She looked to be in exactly the same position Harry had left her in, parchment completely surrounding her.

“Oh, you’re the best,” she said, with a warm sigh. “I don’t think my brain’s even been functioning for the past half an hour.”

Harry waited as she gathered up her work, beginning to arrange it into a variety of folders.

“Are we eating up here or in the kitchen?” she asked, screwing on the lid to her ink bottle.

“Up to you. Half of the table in the kitchen is currently occupied by an entire field’s worth of dandelions, though.”

Hermione’s eyebrows rose for a split second before understanding crossed her face.

“Kreacher saw you making that parsley pesto the other night, didn’t he?”

Harry groaned slightly, and Hermione snickered, casting a Cleaning Charm on her quills. A slight tapping interrupted them, and Harry looked over to see an owl waiting outside the window.

“Were you expecting something?” he asked, walking over to the window and allowing the owl in.

“Oh, yes, that’s the Prophet, give him a Knut, would you?” Hermione said, stacking up her folders at the end of the table.

“You’re still getting this rot?” Harry asked, unable to keep the disgust from his voice, digging in his pocket for a coin to give the owl.

“Know thine enemy, Harry,” said Hermione, meaningfully, and Harry just rolled his eyes, but as the owl flew back out the window, he unrolled the newspaper all the same and the enormous headline took him aback.

****

**_GARRICK OLLIVANDER REMEMBERED…AND REPLACED?_ **

_Esteemed British wandmaker, Garrick Ollivander (b. 25 September 1894) died in his home last week on the 18 th of August. Mr Ollivander was a talented and devoted wandmaker whose revolutionary work in the craft have made him a significant figure in Wizarding history. Wandmakers from around the world have been sharing their grief over Ollivander’s passing._

_“A damn shame,” said Irene Dandridge, an Australian wandmaker who was lucky enough to attend an exclusive and secretive workshop held by Ollivander in her youth._

_“He was the best,” Filip Poláček, a wandmaker rising in popularity in the Czech Republic, said. “It is rare, a wandmaker as good as him.”_

_“I wish he had written a book,” said Argentinian star wandmaker Alejandro Allegretto, “to share his methods and secrets. Since he is dead, he does not need them anymore.”_

_Ollivander’s wandmaking secrets were carefully guarded and jealously sought after, however they may not have necessarily died with him. For the last two years, Ollivanders: Makers of Fine Wands in Diagon Alley has been operated by and run by Ollivander’s young apprentice, Draco Lucius Malfoy. For several years, Malfoy has served as Ollivander’s assistant, much to the public’s surprise._

_No one can forget the role the Malfoy family played in the war, however Ollivander had an even closer view, having been held prisoner in the Malfoy Manor dungeons for some time. The Daily Prophet attempted to question Ollivander about his unusual choice in assistants when their cooperation began, however he declined to provide a comment. Many have speculated whether he may have developed Stockholm Syndrome for his captors._

_When the junior Malfoy took over Ollivanders, many customers expressed their outrage._

_“I’m not buying no wand from no bleedin’ Death Eater,” said one father two years ago, whose daughter will be attending Hogwarts for her third year this autumn. “Who knows what kind of Dark Magic he’s puttin’ in those things? And now we had to pay much more for an imported wand! Can’t even get a decent wand in Britain, it isn’t right!”_

_However, there are also those who have accepted Malfoy’s position as head of Ollivanders._

_“Oh, I wasn’t sure at first,” said one witch, “you know, with everything I had read about him, but he was very patient with my son. We must have gone through ten or eleven wands before finding the right one! And the shop was left in a state, I was quite embarrassed. But Mr Malfoy paid it no mind and kindly explained to my son how to properly care for his wand. There have been no problems at all, and he clearly cares for his work. I think people are thinking about the past too much.”_

_Enough customers seemed to share this sentiment, as Ollivanders has maintained steady business throughout the past two years, however this may have been largely because Ollivander himself was still frequently seen in the store, continuing to advise and perhaps supervise the younger Malfoy. Now that the senior wandmaker has passed and there is no one to watch over Malfoy’s work, it is possible the wizarding people of Britain will look elsewhere for their wand-related needs._

_Malfoy spoke little regarding Ollivander’s death, choosing to only speak to reporters of_ The Quibbler _, where his close friend—and suspected paramour—Luna Lovegood works._

_One cannot help but wonder if perhaps he has been waiting eagerly for Ollivander’s death, as he is now the leading source for wands in Britain._

“Harry? Is everything alright?”

Harry blinked as he finished the article and looked up to see Hermione, who had clearly been calling him for a while.

“Sorry,” he said, folding up the newspaper and walking back over. The pot roast Harry had made was sat in a large bowl on the table, with two places set. It was a neat bit of elf magic, how the food could be easily transported to the dining room table with just a snap of Kreacher’s bony fingers.

“Anything interesting in the Prophet?” Hermione asked, as they sat down and began to help themselves. Harry looked at her, and her ever-so-slight raised eyebrow that gave away her air of ignorance for the act that it was.

“Ollivander died,” he said, the words of the article still running through his head as he tried to process them.

“Oh, yes,” she said, in a quieter voice. “I read about that in the Quibbler last Tuesday. Apparently his house elf was with him for a day after he died, not knowing who to tell.”

“That’s horrible,” said Harry, aghast at the thought. Hermione nodded, chewing thoughtfully.

“I would’ve thought there would be some sort of protocol, something to do with the House-Elf Placement Agency. But it must be so difficult for them, just having to leave the home they’ve been in for so long.”

Harry nodded, and they sat in silence for a moment, the clattering of their cutlery against dishes echoing in the large room. Harry fidgeted slightly in his seat, unsure whether or not to voice his thoughts.

“Did…did The Quibbler say anything about…about Malfoy?” he asked, aiming for nonchalance. He really shouldn’t have bothered, because Hermione’s eyebrow twitched upwards again, that familiar knowing look appearing in her eyes.

“Not much,” she said. “Just that he’s a devoted wandmaker and is carrying on Ollivander’s legacy.”

“The Prophet is saying he’s glad Ollivander’s dead because now nobody’s watching over him to make sure he doesn’t do anything evil,” Harry said, bitterly.

He hadn’t spoken to Draco in years, but he knew that he had been working hard. Ron had been sent to Ollivanders more than once to check up on him, as part of his “Death Eater clean-up” duty, but he always described it as a pointless endeavour, as there was never anything illegal going on there. Despite keeping his nose clean however, it seemed as though suspicion continued to follow Draco.

Hermione wrinkled her nose.

“Of course they did,” she said, reaching for the newspaper where Harry had set it down on the table and unfolding it, her eyes moving rapidly as she skimmed across the article. “What rubbish.”

“Do they write this kind of thing often?” Harry asked.

“What, inaccurate articles? That’s practically all they do,” said Hermione, disdainfully.

“I mean, about Draco,” said Harry, and it hurt his throat to say his name. He felt like he was trying to swallow a stone.

He didn’t talk about Draco, not if he could avoid it. It had been so long since…since Hogwarts, that it didn’t feel as fresh of a wound, but it still ached sometimes, like an old bruise that’s still sore when you prod at it.

It also didn’t help that no one else knew about what all had transpired between the two of them—no one but Hermione.

“Sometimes,” she said, gently. “But it’s always unsubstantiated. He’s been doing good work at Ollivanders, you know, keeping his head down and all.”

Harry just nodded, absently chewing his mouthful of food. That was all he seemed to hear about Draco, given that he avoided ever asking for more details. He was always just working and keeping his head down. At first Harry had thought that was a good thing. He had remembered how excited Draco had been about his studies in wandlore, and of course it was good that he wasn’t getting into anything illegal or dodgy.

But the more he heard that phrase, the more he pictured it literally—Draco, with his neck hunched, his pale hair falling into his face, looking down at his feet, avoiding meeting anyone’s eyes.

Draco’s pride had been something Harry had always disliked about him, perceiving it as arrogance, but imagining him without it didn’t feel right either, and Harry kept remembering the early months of his repeated seventh year, where Draco had seemed to be going to extraordinary efforts to make himself invisible.

“He must be having such a hard time,” Hermione said, and when Harry blinked and looked back up at her, her eyes were brightly trained on him.

“Huh? Why?” Harry asked, feeling disoriented, as he tried to refocus on the conversation at hand and dismiss the memories swirling around in his head.

“Well, Ollivander has been his mentor for the past five years. They must have grown very close.”

“Oh,” Harry said, feeling slightly foolish. “Yeah, of course.”

“It would be nice to perhaps send him your condolences,” she said, in that gentle tone that still had a firm insistence to it.

Harry just looked at her for several seconds, until she sighed.

“Harry, you haven’t spoken in years. Don’t you think it’s time to…extend an olive branch?”

“There’s no olive branch needed,” Harry said. “It isn’t like we had a fight or something.”

Hermione rolled her eyes.

“Does it matter? You were friends, or maybe even…something,” she trailed off rather faintly at the fiery look Harry shot her. She gave a slight sigh and set her fork down to give him a serious look.

“Look, Harry, he was important to you. You cared about him once, and maybe you still do. Do you really never want to see him again?”

Harry chewed on the inside of his mouth.

The thing was—he _did_ want to see Draco again. Despite how staunchly he had avoided speaking about him, he couldn’t help but think about him from time to time. He wondered how he was doing, how his work was, if he was still in touch with his friend Foxblade from school, if he and Luna still spent time together. He had ached to ask Luna about him on more than one occasion, but he had always bitten his tongue. Luna was unusually perceptive, and he was always afraid if he even mentioned Draco’s name, she would somehow _know—_ about that brain-melting kiss they had shared at the end of their repeated seventh year, about how Harry had been unable to think of anything but Draco for weeks afterwards, about how a few exchanged letters had signified the end of anything between them before it could even begin, about how Harry had never fully let himself think about what _could have been._

Hermione was the only one he had ever told about that kiss, and only because she had clearly been able to tell something was on his mind. She had pulled him aside at King’s Cross, as the Weasley clan descended upon Ron, and he had muttered in whispered tones, “Draco and I kissed.”

Her brown eyes had gone wide and she had tugged at his sleeve and asked, “how was it?”

Harry had just blinked at her, unsure how he could possibly go about answering that question. How could he describe that kiss in words? Sure, a kiss is a kiss—there had been lips and teeth and the slightest hint of tongue and hands in hair and robes just like any other kiss, but there was more to it than that. He had felt a pure thrill run throughout his body from head to toe like a lightning bolt, causing him to shudder and he could’ve sworn he felt goosepimples rise up across his arms and legs. It had been a warm and welcome feeling, like coming _home,_ a concept Harry wasn’t even particularly familiar with. It had excited him and captivated him and scared him half to death and Harry almost felt disoriented from the overwhelming amount of feelings that were swirling around inside of him at the very thought of it.

“It was a lot,” he had finally said. “Too much.”

* * *

_August 28 – Wednesday_

The Burrow had always felt comfortably crowded—well lived-in and used, full and homey, but the guest list for Molly’s mandatory monthly dinners had grown in recent years.

Charlie, while still mainly based in Romania, frequently assisted and consulted with the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures at the Ministry, so he was home much more often, to the delight of his parents. Ginny would occasionally miss a dinner or two due to her Quidditch games, but Molly did her best to strategically plan them so that everyone could attend.

Despite the fact that Harry and Ginny’s romance had fizzled out before it ever even got off the ground, Molly made it clear that Harry was still a part of the family and welcome at every Weasley dinner. Hermione was also always invited, though her job also caused her to be absent sometimes.

Tonight, however, it seemed to be a full house. Molly and Charlie worked together in the kitchen, as he was the only Weasley child who seemed to have inherited Molly’s knack for cooking, while Bill and Fleur took over arranging the table.

Hermione was deep in a conversation with Percy, who worked as a solicitor now, regarding legal procedures for Beings as compared to witches and wizards. Percy had become a lot more tolerable now that he no longer worked for the Ministry, but he was still _Percy_ , and Hermione seemed to be the best at communicating with him out of the lot of them.

George and Ron were discussing the shop, the products that were selling well, the ones that weren’t, and ideas for potential new ones. It seemed to be a rather animated conversation, with both of them jumping into each other’s sentences with new ideas or suggestions.

Harry sat on the sofa with both of his hands wrapped around a mug of tea, observing the room with a slight sense of detachment, as though it were all background noise occurring around him. He only realised he had somewhat checked out when Ginny threw herself onto the sofa next to him, causing him to jolt slightly, and hold on to his tea so it wouldn’t spill.

“You look like you’re miles away,” she said, brown eyes looking right up at him.

“Sorry,” he said, “I didn’t realise.”

“Distracted?” she asked.

Harry shrugged.

“Not really. Just making some changes with my work schedule that have me thinking a lot lately.”

“Oh, are you finally cutting down your hours? It’s about time.”

Harry raised his eyebrows at her.

“Says you, of all people.”

Ginny waved her hand, dismissively.

“It’s different for me.”

“Oh, yes, you’re right,” Harry said, a grin forming on his face. “Ginny the Quidditch Star, she’s far too special to be compared with us mere mortals!”

“Exactly,” Ginny replied, with a grin of her own now.

“How’s it going anyway? Harding still have you training like mad?”

Ginny let out a slight groan.

“You have no idea, Harry; I’m sore in places of my body I didn’t even know existed.”

Harry laughed.

“Hasn’t she been talking about retiring for years now?”

“Yeah, but it’s all talk. I was telling Ron earlier, all Robards wants is to retire and the Ministry won’t let him, while _everyone_ wants Harding to retire except _her_.”

“Well, hey, at least you’re on a winning streak, right?”

Ginny suddenly shoved her elbow into his side, aggressively.

“Hey!” he exclaimed. “What was that for?”

“You’re not supposed to _say_ that, Harry, it’s bad luck!”

“Like it makes a difference,” he grumbled, but couldn’t completely wipe the smile off his face. A beat passed between them, as Harry debated whether or not to ask the question he wanted to.

“How’s Heidi?” he finally said, tentatively, and winced faintly when he felt Ginny tense up beside him. Heidi was a touchy topic with Ginny these days, as the two were constantly on and off again with their relationship. The team rivalry between the Harpies and the Falcons—Heidi’s team—was intense, and often caused rifts to form between the two of them. But oftentimes, they also seemed to get along extremely well, and clearly cared a lot for each other.

“I don’t know,” Ginny said, her tone unnaturally light. “We haven’t seen each other in a while.”

“Oh,” Harry said. “I’m sorry.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” she said, her voice still sounding foreign. “It’s perfectly fine.”

“Ginny,” started Harry, unsure what he was even planning on saying. “You don’t _have_ to be fine about it, you know.”

Ginny’s shoulders slumped ever so slightly.

“We’re not together,” she said. “It’s not fair for me to keep asking her how she’s doing and what’s going on in her life if we’re not together.”

“I guess not,” he replied. “But it’s normal to want to know that kind of stuff about somebody you care about. Whether you’re together or not, you care about her, right?”

Ginny looked like she was about to say something, but was interrupted by the sound of a bell chiming, the sign that the front door had just been opened.

“Hello, family,” said Arthur, as he walked inside. Everyone greeted him, with Molly walking over to help him out of his jacket and Bill inviting him to sit beside him. Taking advantage of the distraction, Ginny squeezed Harry’s leg and then got up from the sofa, effectively ending their conversation.

* * *

Dinner was delicious as always, and Harry felt the familiar sleepy feeling begin to settle in him as they all sat in the living room after the meal. Hermione seemed to be having a serious conversation with Ginny, as the two were in the corner, speaking in hushed tones, and Harry didn’t want to interrupt, so he made himself comfortable in an armchair, knowing that Hermione would come get him when she was ready to head home. He could feel himself starting to doze off slightly, his eyes fluttering closed, when Bill’s loud voice made them snap back open.  
“Hey, everyone! Just, if I could get your attention for a minute!”

The various side conversations that made up the hum that surrounded them all died down as everyone turned to look at Bill, who was standing by the fire, holding the hand of Fleur, who was standing beside him.

“We had an announcement that we wanted to share, and since everyone is here, we thought, now’s as good a time as any.”

He looked at Fleur, his eyes shining and she beamed back at him, looking so happy that she seemed to glow.

“We are going to ‘ave a baby!” Fleur declared, her smile so wide and white it was almost blinding.

The room erupted, with Molly practically shrieking with excitement and rushing over to envelop her son in an embrace, Ginny and Hermione hurrying forward to grasp Fleur’s hands, George and Ron shouting out loud, Charlie clapping his hand on Percy’s shoulder so hard that he actually stumbled forward. Harry felt frozen for a moment, as though unsure what to do with himself, before almost automatically rising from his seat and heading forward to shake Bill’s hand.

“Congratulations,” he heard himself saying, feeling a smile on his face without knowing how it got there.

“Thanks, Harry,” Bill said, smiling and squeezing his hand before releasing it. It was a flurry of emotions, everyone surrounding Bill and Fleur and congratulating them and celebrating, Arthur saying it was an occasion worth bringing out the fancy bubbly for.

Harry felt like people were spinning all around him, as Molly fetched the champagne glasses and one was shoved into his hands. The noise only lessened once again when everyone’s glasses were full, and eyes turned once again to Bill and Fleur, waiting for them to speak.

“You know,” Bill started, in a much quieter voice than he had spoken in before. “When we got married, during the war…I know some people thought it was crazy, or bad timing. But we thought, this world may be full of hatred, but it’s full of love as well. And I think maybe things balance out like that sometimes. The other day, we read in the papers about Ollivander’s death. And here we are, celebrating a new life. It just makes me think…life is unpredictable, and we never know how much time we have left. I’m grateful that I’m spending this time here, with you all.”

“’Ere, ‘ere!” Fleur cheered, with a few tears in her eyes. Bill smiled at her and kissed her eyelid gently, before clinking his glass against hers, queuing everyone else to follow suit.

“I dunno, Bill, I think your toast-making needs work,” George said, after draining his champagne glass in a gulp. “Too much talk about war and death, doesn’t really make for a celebratory mood.”

“I’ll leave the toasting to you next time, George, how about that?” Bill said, grinning at his younger brother.

“Now you’re talking.”

Harry watched, he watched as they drank their champagne, as Molly questioned Bill and Fleur about how long they’ve known, as George and Ron began to joke about how they would corrupt the child with Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes early on, and he held his glass of champagne in his hand tightly.

This was his family, these were people he loved, and he didn’t understand why he felt so off-kilter. Everybody’s lives seemed to be moving so quickly, and Harry felt like his was in limbo.

“I think you were right, Harry,” came Ginny’s voice, and Harry turned to see she had come up behind him.

“About what?” he asked.

“Heidi,” she replied. “I do care about her. I want to know how she’s doing. I’m going to write to her.”

Harry smiled, suddenly feeling a lot more like himself.

“That’s great, Ginny.”

She smiled back.

“I’m going to go get some more of this,” she said, waving her empty champagne glass and walking off.

“Was that your advice?” came another voice, as soon as Ginny had gone.

“What?”

“What Ginny said,” Hermione elaborated. “About writing to Heidi, because she cares about her. Did you give her that advice?”

“Er, I guess?”

Hermione seemed to ponder this.

“It’s good advice,” she said, giving him a look that clearly meant to communicate something.

“Thanks…I suppose?”

“I don’t suppose you’d think of taking it yourself.”

“What do you—oh,” Harry stopped, suddenly knowing exactly what she was talking about, and exactly which part of Bill’s speech had immobilized him in such a way. He breathed in, registering how shaky it was as he did so.

“Draco,” he said.

* * *

 _August 30 th – Friday_

Making the decision that he was going to go and see Draco had been incredibly difficult in and of itself, so it was no surprise that actually _executing_ that decision had Harry so nervous he felt his palms sweating.

He had to remind himself _twice_ that he had willingly walked towards his death in the Forbidden Forest and that, in comparison, walking down Diagon Alley towards Draco Malfoy should be no trouble at all just to get _near_ Ollivanders.

He could already feel himself slowing down as he walked up from the Apparition point near Charmed Chocolates, his gut clenching and unclenching with anxiety over what he would say. He had barely slept last night, countless possibilities for how everything could go wrong flashing in his mind. Draco could hex him. Or throw him out of the shop. Or pick a fight. Or ignore him completely.

Harry felt his feet come to a complete halt. He was coming dangerously close to a full anxiety attack in the middle of the south side of Diagon Alley. Spotting some sort of café to his right, he decided to duck in and have a tea to calm down before going on to Ollivanders. He swallowed heavily and entered the café, berating himself for his lack of Gryffindor courage. The door let out a gentle sort of chime as it closed behind him and Harry flinched at the sound.

The café was tastefully decorated, not that Harry knew much about interior design. It looked cosy, with soft velvet armchairs and round wooden tables. He was relieved to find it also wasn’t particularly crowded, only a few people occupying the variously coloured chairs across the room.

Not wanting to draw attention to himself, he quickly sat himself down in a mustard-coloured chair near the door, stroking the armrest almost automatically, as if his body was searching for something—anything—to soothe him.

It was a technique he had learned from Rhiannon—focusing on one particular sensory experience in order to quiet down any intrusive thoughts. His fingers rubbed over the soft velvet, trying to focus on the feeling of the texture more than anything else.

Once he felt his breathing go back to normal, he reached out for the menu sitting at the centre of the table, in the form of a square shaped book. He flipped through it, barely registering their extensive collection of teas and pastries, still feeling like his heart rate was slowing down to its usual tempo.

He stared at the words without reading them, until the tinkling sound of the door made him raise his head and all of his muscles tightened at once.

It was Draco.

He was in soft grey summer robes, linen or something similarly light, and his hair was short, but fell slightly into his eyes as he walked in and he flicked his head slightly to shake it back.

As he did so, his eyes fell directly upon Harry. He seemed to freeze at the sight of him, the corners of his lips tightening into a slight frown.

They stared at each other, like frightened animals unsure of what the other would do and terrified to make any sudden movements, and though it must have only been a few seconds, Harry felt like it stretched on for ages.

“Malfoy,” he finally said. This was clearly enough to bring Draco back to himself, as he straightened and nodded curtly.

“Potter,” he said, coolly.

“Would you…like to join me?” asked Harry, awkwardly gesturing at the seat across from him.

“I wouldn’t want to impose,” replied Draco.

“I was on my way to see you anyway,” Harry admitted, and noticed how Draco’s eyebrow shot up in surprise before he quickly schooled his face back to a neutral expression.

“Alright, then,” Draco said, walking over and taking the other seat at the table, smoothing down his robes as he sat.

There was a long moment of silence.

“So, er, how are you doing?”

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Harry bit his tongue. Ollivander had just died. Obviously, Draco would not be doing great.

“I’m well,” Draco said, his voice distant and polite and sounding nothing like the Draco from Hogwarts—before or after the war.

“I’m…I was sorry to hear about Ollivander.”

Draco’s jaw seemed to stiffen and Harry could feel himself tense up, afraid of what his reaction would be. He was already so nervous; he desperately didn’t want to anger Draco.

Before Draco could say anything in response, however, a waitress appeared at their table, causing both of them to look up at her.

“Ella,” Draco said, suddenly sounding much warmer, his voice losing its edge. “How are you, love?”

Harry recognised her—unfortunately not by her pretty brown hair worn in bouncy waves past her chin, or her gentle, dimpled smile, but instead by the faded pinkish-white scar on her right cheek.

She had been harassed at Hogwarts that last year by the boys in her grade, for being a Slytherin. Harry and Draco had stumbled upon her crying in a corridor once.

“I’m good, thanks, Draco,” Ella replied, before directing her smile to Harry. “Hello, Mr Potter.”

“Harry, please,” Harry said, clumsily. He always felt strange when people around his own age addressed him as 'Mr Potter'.

“Harry,” Ella acquiesced. “What can I get for you? Draco, the usual?”

“Please,” said Draco.

“And for you?” asked Ella, looking at Harry again.

“Oh, er…” Harry darted another look at the menu. “I’ll have the Earl Grey.”

“Milk or lemon?”

“Just lemon, please. And some sugar,” said Harry.

“Right! Any pastries for you?”

“Oh, no, thank you.”

“Nonsense,” said Draco. Harry looked at him but he was determinedly looking up at Ella instead. “Ask Sabrina if there’s any treacle tart. If not, get him a Manchester tart.”

Ella nodded, giving him another smile.

“Alright, I’ll be back with that in a tick.”

Another beat of silence passed between them after Ella walked away.

“How’s work?” Harry finally asked, cracking his knuckles nervously in his lap under the table.

“Busy,” said Draco. “Season’s only just coming to an end. And you?”

He was being polite, but giving the absolute bare minimum, and Harry could practically feel how he was just waiting for the conversation to finish.

“It’s good,” Harry nodded. “I’m cutting down on my hours this fall.”

Another slight twitch of Draco’s eyebrow.

“Why’s that?”

“My Mind Healer suggested it.”

“You’re seeing a Mind Healer?”

Harry opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by a cup of tea and a plate sliding in front of him. He looked up to thank Ella, but found a different woman serving them.

“Sabrina,” Draco said, a smirk flying onto his face. “You’ve emerged from your cave.”

“The kitchen is not a _cave,_ ” said the woman, in a startlingly American accent. To Harry’s surprise, she seemed to be in Muggle clothing—a white shirt and apron over dark denim trousers. “Ella said I would want to take these out myself. I suppose you’re the reason why, huh?”

She looked at Harry, and he suddenly felt intimidated by her large eyes and voluminous hair piled atop her head.

“Er…” Harry didn’t know quite how to reply. An affirmation seemed somewhat presumptuous, a denial rather stupid.

“Potter’s a regional celebrity,” Draco waved his hand, dismissively, and despite it clearly being somewhat of an insult, Harry brightened slightly at the familiar twinkle in Draco’s eye as he spoke.

“Oh, shut up, Draco, I know who he is,” Sabrina said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

She held out her hand and Harry shook it.

“Afraid we’re out of treacle tart, we mainly only make it on Mondays and Wednesdays, but I hope you enjoy this,” she gestured to the Manchester tart in front of Harry, which—he had to admit—looked delicious.

“What about me?” Draco asked obnoxiously, grinning as she was about to turn away.

“You can choke,” Sabrina said, though she was grinning as well. “I should get back to the kitchen.”

“She seems interesting,” Harry said, honestly, after she disappeared back into what he presumed was the kitchen.

“She’s American,” Draco said, simply, as if this explained everything. “She moved here two years ago.”

“Oh. Cool.”

More silence.

Luckily, there was now tea and tart to occupy him, so Harry gratefully bit into his tart, and was happy to find it was just as tasty as it looked. He dared a glance up at Draco, who had what looked like a slice of carrot cake on his plate and a small fork in his hand.

They ate quietly, however the silence seemed to morph from something awkward to something more companionable as they chewed their pastries and sipped their tea.

“I have to get back to work, Potter,” Draco finally said, placing his fork delicately on his empty plate.

“Oh. Right,” nodded Harry. As Draco stood, shaking out his robes, and Harry felt his heart rate picking up again at his nervousness, he managed to get out a, “Could we meet up again?”

Draco looked at him, seemingly not even trying to hide the surprised expression on his face.

“Yes, I suppose,” he replied after a pause.

Harry leaned back into his chair, relieved.

“Great,” he said. “It was good to see you.”

“You as well, Potter,” Draco nodded, tucking in his chair. “Ella? Ella, where are you, love? I’m off.”

Draco walked off, to find Ella for a proper goodbye, Harry supposed, and Harry picked up his teacup for another sip.

It hadn’t gone exactly as he’d hoped, perhaps, but it had been a lot better than he had feared. He felt a strange sense of excitement inside of him, as if seeing Draco and exchanging awkward small talk over tea had been some sort of thrilling adventure.

He looked good. For all his paleness, the sunshine seemed to treat him well, bringing just a kiss of colour to his cheeks, and making his hair seem to almost glow in the light.

After Harry finished his tea, he gestured for Ella to come over to the table in order to pay, only to be informed that Draco had already covered it.


	5. I'm standing in the ashes of who I used to be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Are you so starved for affection you feel the need to live through my exploits?” Draco asked, looking down at his suddenly-full glass of wine.
> 
> Pansy snorted.
> 
> “Love, need I remind you where I’ve been these past few years? There is no shortage of attractive men with loose morals in Paris. But dating as a Death Eater here in Britain, I’ve got to say I’m curious.”
> 
> Draco didn’t even flinch at the words, but he felt them settle uncomfortably in his gut, twisting around with the wine—Death Eater. He never would escape them, he knew it, but being reminded of it was a blow all the same.
> 
> “Former Death Eater,” he said, his voice sounding formal and strange.
> 
> “Pardon me, as a former Death Eater, then,” Pansy still had that look on her face, that wicked twinkle in her eyes. She always knew how to get what she wanted.
> 
> “There was someone,” Draco admitted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this killed me to write but I FINALLY got it done. apologies for the long wait, but that's just Who I Am as a writer. hope you enjoy!
> 
> song title is from Angel On Fire by Halsey and moodboard is Pansy!

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/186693494@N02/49656229813/in/dateposted-public/)

_September 3 rd – Tuesday_

Sugarplum’s was a bit of a guilty pleasure for Draco, an opportunity to indulge in his sweet tooth as well as an odd, clumsy sort of nostalgia, as it reminded him of Honeydukes with its bright colours and the scent of sugar in the air and the early years of Hogwarts, before everything had gone to hell. Being that it was right next door to Ollivander’s, it was easy to jump in for a quick break while crafting.

Today, it was also a chance to catch a minute of peace before he was off to meet for drinks with Pansy. She had owled him over the weekend, her request to meet up sounding much more like a demand, in typical Pansy fashion.

Draco was doing his best not to think things like that, knowing that he himself was nothing like the person he was the last time he had seen her. He wanted to give her the chance to show him who she had become over these last few years. But he couldn’t help feeling a bit apprehensive.

He and Pansy used to be close—in a way—and he didn’t know if some of that dynamic would resurface once they saw each other again. A small part of him worried that being around her would cause him to regress back into who he used to be. He tried to tell himself that was irrational, that he had changed as a person and simply seeing an old friend wouldn’t change him back, but it was a fear he felt nonetheless.

So here he was in Sugarplum’s, trying to soak in a bit of comfort before he went charging into the lion’s den—or the snake’s, perhaps, to be more accurate.

“Are you going to buy something or just stand there looking constipated?” came a voice.

Draco narrowed his eyes at the dark-haired girl behind the counter.

“Is that any way to speak to a customer, Meredith?”

Meredith just smirked at him.

“Have I lost your business?”

Draco merely grumbled, picking out a case of sugared butterfly wings, some chocoballs, and tub of pink coconut ice to bring over to the counter.

“Can you pack these separately?” he asked, indicating which sweets he meant.

“Sure! How have you been?” the former Ravenclaw asked, as she rang up his items.

“I’ve been well, thank you,” Draco answered, politely. “And you?”

“Wonderful,” she said, beginning to pack Draco’s sweets in a purple and white striped paper bag. “I met the most fascinating man the other day at one of Dominic’s practices; apparently, he’s an assistant to the commentators. He’s French.”

Draco raised his eyebrows at her, but that did nothing to stop her.

“He has these gorgeous blue eyes, Draco, and the accent,” she gushed. “It’s to die for.”

“Lovely,” said Draco, dryly. “Whatever shall you tell Dominic?”

Meredith reached out to smack him on the arm.

“Not for _me,_ you old sod, for _you_.”

“When will you cease this fruitless effort to set me up with one of the dozens of unfortunate men you happen upon?”

“When will you give one of them a _chance_?” she replied, handing over the bag. Draco took it and offered her a gentle smile.

“It’ll be a cold day in July, dear. Just because you and Dominic are sickeningly in love doesn’t mean everyone should be.”

“You’ve been on your own for a long time, Draco,” she said, tucking a strand of her long hair behind her ear. “There’s nothing wrong with wanting company. You might want to give it a try sometime.”

“Thank you, love, but I tend to function better without unsolicited advice.”

Meredith rolled her eyes.

“Alright, alright, at least we should all go out together sometime. Bring Violet and Daphne, they’re good fun.”

“That, I can agree to,” he said. “Thanks for the sweets.”

He didn’t begrudge Meredith her little matchmaking attempts, but he had never been tempted to actually take her up on any of them. She was right, it had been a long time he had been on his own, but during that time, he hadn’t ever really wanted to go out and meet anyone.

That wasn’t to say he wasn’t lonely at times. Of course he was. But he was more than familiar with the feeling; it was almost a part of who he was by this point. It was exceptionally lonely—being Draco Malfoy.

He walked at a leisurely pace, far slower than his usual brisk walk. He had been taught to walk with purpose, to always have the destination in mind. His walk showed that he was busy and important and powerful. At least, that’s what Lucius had taught him.

But he took his time today, the anxiety rising in his stomach as he turned onto Knockturn Alley, feeling the cobblestone under his shoes with each step.

The White Wyvern had a dark atmosphere, with little moons hanging over each table that only lit up the area for those who sat there, providing privacy for its patrons. The bar was small, but well-stocked, and despite its gloomy appearance, Draco had spent many an enjoyable night here with Luna, after she finished work right next door.

He doubted Pansy knew that when she had invited him there. She had always preferred lavish locales, the more luxurious and expensive the better. A hole-in-the-wall pub was certainly not what Draco remembered as being her taste, however he wondered if the privacy the White Wyvern offered was what had attracted Pansy.

He reminded himself she had just returned to Britain for the first time since the war, and perhaps didn’t know how she would be welcomed. For that, he felt a rush of sympathy for her. He knew what it was like to live as a former Death Eater in a post-war world, and though she had never taken the Mark, she had earned a reputation as a Death Eater sympathiser, and had to be afraid of the reaction she would get from people upon her return.

She was waiting for him outside of the pub when he approached. She looked as sophisticated as ever, her short black hair choppy and severe, her fingernails long and painted a bright red, black satin hugging her body tightly.

“Draco, darling,” she said, her lips twitching up into a half smile. Draco returned it, leaning in as they kissed each other’s cheeks. She smelled like jasmine and cigarette smoke.

“Pansy,” he greeted her, and gestured towards the entrance of the pub. “Shall we?”

She nodded and made her way in, Draco’s hand hovering awkwardly behind her as he followed her in.

“Why don’t you find us a seat and I’ll get our drinks?” he offered. “Red currant rum, wasn’t it?”

Pansy smirked.

“Good memory,” she said, and turned away to find them a table. Meanwhile, Draco went up to the bar to order their drinks. He let out a breath he hadn’t been aware he was holding. Perhaps he was nervous for no reason, he told himself. Maybe Pansy just wanted to catch up, now that she was back in town. Maybe she was reaching out, looking for friends, because she wanted to try and move back to Britain for good.

He took their drinks to a booth in the corner, where Pansy had made herself comfortable. The bluish white light of the hovering moon above her head made Pansy’s skin seem to glow in an otherworldly fashion.

“Ta,” she said, extending a long-fingered hand to take the glass he offered her. He nodded back, taking a sip from his own glass of nettle wine, letting the faint sting settle on his tongue.

“Did you have trouble finding the place? It’s rather dingy, I know,” Pansy said, waving a hand haphazardly at the darkness beyond their illuminated table. “But I thought quiet might be better, to actually hear each other.”

“No trouble,” Draco replied. “I’m familiar with the area.”

Pansy raised an eyebrow, a smirk playing at her lips.

“Spending a lot of time on Knockturn Alley these days, Draco?”

Draco felt his spine stiffen slightly at the implication, even though it didn’t sound like an accusation, especially coming from Pansy.

“I work nearby,” he said, shortly.

Pansy took another sip of rum, snorting softly into her glass.

“Yes, yes, I’ve read about you in the paper, of course. Taking over Ollivanders, very impressive.”

Draco raised his glass to his lips again, hoping the blue wine would numb his tongue. Maybe he could use that as an excuse for not replying.

“I wouldn’t say I’ve taken over,” he said, instead. “I like to think I’m continuing Ollivander’s work.”

“You know what I meant,” she said, her eyes rolling.

“Yes,” he allowed. He reminded himself that she meant no harm, that that was just how Pansy was. Prickly around the edges. Somewhat harsh. Sharp.

He used to be like that. It was only by spending time with people like Violet and Luna and Ella that he became gentler; softer. Kinder, both to others and to himself. He was privileged to have such friendships. Not everyone did.

“How about you?” he asked. “How is France?”

“Oh, you know,” said Pansy, with a shrug of one shoulder. “The food is divine, the boys are delicious. I finally sat for my exams last year, the French equivalent to the N.E.W.T.s. I didn’t see the point, but my mother insisted, and you know how she gets.”

Draco nodded slowly. He did indeed remember the intimidating—and mildly terrifying—Irene Parkinson.

“Do you work?” he asked, hesitantly. Throughout his years at Hogwarts, he had never thought he would have to work in his adult years—at least, certainly not the kind of work he was doing now. But then again, he had always planned to end up like his father back then, and now, well, his father wasn’t exactly in a position to be the ideal role model.

Predictably, Pansy scoffed.

“Darling, remember who you’re talking to, please,” she said, flicking her short hair back with a lengthy nail.

A smile tugged at Draco’s lips. Pansy did have a certain theatricality about her that always made her fun to be around. He’d forgotten about that.

“As if you’d ever let me forget,” he responded, feeling himself slip slightly into the old rhythm of their conversations, the awkwardness melting away.

Pansy grinned widely, clearly noticing it as well.

“There you are,” she said, a hint of smugness in her tone. “Now we can get to the good stuff.”

“The good stuff?” Draco asked, his eyebrows raising. “Oh, do go on.”

“It’s you I want to hear about,” she said, her elbow on the table and her chin resting in her palm as she leaned forward. “Are you still living at the Manor?”

“No, I was visiting when you popped by,” he narrowed his eyes at her at the reminder of her dramatic entrance and she smirked, unrepentantly. “I have my own house now, in Kensington.”

“You’re living alone?”

“Yes,” he confirmed. “Unless you count Elpis.”

Pansy rolled her eyes.

“Your owl most certainly does not _count,_ Draco.”

“Who else do you want in the house with me?”

Pansy waggled her eyebrows.

“No special someone in your life?”

Draco’s back straightened a bit, and he felt the prickle of the nettle wine shift inside his stomach.

“None to report,” he replied, somewhat shortly.

“Oh, come on, Draco,” said Pansy, impatiently. “You want me to believe that with Lucius in Azkaban and no one pressuring you to get married as soon as possible, you’ve just been at home by yourself this whole time?”

“What would you prefer I tell you?”

“There had to have been _some_ men,” she said, picking up her wand and refilling their glasses before Levitating some Sickles over to the bar.

“Are you so starved for affection you feel the need to live through my exploits?” Draco asked, looking down at his suddenly-full glass of wine.

Pansy snorted.

“Love, need I remind you where I’ve been these past few years? There is no shortage of attractive men with loose morals in Paris. But dating as a Death Eater here in Britain, I’ve got to say I’m curious.”

Draco didn’t even flinch at the words, but he felt them settle uncomfortably in his gut, twisting around with the wine— _Death Eater._ He never would escape them, he knew it, but being reminded of it was a blow all the same.

“Former Death Eater,” he said, his voice sounding formal and strange.

“Pardon me, as a _former_ Death Eater, then,” Pansy still had that look on her face, that wicked twinkle in her eyes. She always knew how to get what she wanted.

“There was someone,” Draco admitted, ignoring Pansy’s smug grin and instead taking a long sip of wine, letting it sit in the back of his throat until it hurt. “Two years ago, when I was still Ollivander’s apprentice. Nathaniel.”

He swallowed, hard. Thinking about Nathaniel brought with it its own complicated emotions. The death of Ollivander, the man who had been his support and guide through almost everything for the past few years, only made it heavier.

Pansy was quiet, seeming to realise that further prodding was not necessary, that Draco had resigned himself to tell the story.

“He was the striker to the blacksmith; you know the one, by the fountain on Carkitt Market,” at Pansy’s nod, Draco continued, “and I used to always see him on my way to work.”

He let out a shaky breath. He didn’t know why he had acquiesced, why he was telling Pansy this. He hadn’t seen her in years, he didn’t owe her anything. But somehow…somehow it felt good, talking to her. She had all the familiarity of an old friend, but all the advantages of a stranger, in that she wasn’t a part of his life, and he didn’t feel like he had to minimise the truth in order to prevent her worrying for him.

“He was always messy, and dirty, soot and clay and wood all over his clothes. He smelled of smoke and metal and his hands were so tough, but so warm…” he trailed off, chewing on the inside of his cheek.

Nathaniel had always had a wide smile for him, during a time when almost no one else did, when the Daily Prophet was still sending interns out to follow him around, when people still spat at him in the street and threw hexes at his back.

After witnessing Draco fail to block a Stinging Hex aimed at his ankle, Nathaniel had taken to waiting for him outside of Ollivanders and walking with him to the nearest Apparition point, which was right by his own work. With his large frame and muscled arms, and a deep frown on his usual chipper face, he had been extremely effective in preventing people from taking out their anger on Draco in the street.

“Why are you doing this?” Draco had asked him once, after finding that Nathaniel had waited out in the rain for him, the Impervius he had cast barely doing enough to keep his brown hair from getting soaked.

“What do you mean?” he had replied, in his low voice.

“Why are you being so…so _kind_ to me?”

Nathaniel’s face had softened, and he had reached out a calloused hand to cup Draco’s face. Despite how rough it was, despite how cold and wet and covered in grime, Draco had leaned into the touch.

“Why do you not believe yourself worthy of kindness?”

Draco had squeezed his eyes closed, unable to respond.

“Come,” Nathaniel had said. “Let’s get you out of the rain.”

It was a week later, when they took their usual walk from Ollivanders to the Apparition point on Carkitt Market, and Nathaniel had been turning to leave, when Draco had stopped him.

“Wait,” he said.

Nathaniel waited, looking at him.

“You’ve been walking me here every day for weeks now. Let me do something in return.”

Nathaniel shook his head.

“You don’t owe me anything in return.”

He had shared such sentiments before, especially when Draco mentioned wanting to pay him back in some way. Draco had soon learned it was a lost cause.

“Not because I owe you,” Draco said, quickly. “Because I want to. Let me take you out for dinner, or…or something.”

He had stumbled near the end there, realising how much it had started to sound like a _date_ and chastising himself for probably scaring off a potential friend, this tall, strong man who worked with his hands and walked with such power and had a jawline that could cut glass, this man who could _never_ possibly be interested in another ma—

“Yes,” said Nathaniel, a soft smile crossing his lips. “I would like that.”

Draco had blinked at him, surprise probably written all over his face, but he’d made a valiant effort at recovery.

“Oh,” he’d muttered. “Oh. That’s…that’s good then. Tonight?”

“Tonight would be good,” Nathaniel confirmed. Draco looked at him, at the hardness of his jaw, but the softness of his eyes, at the smile that seemed to be glued to his face.

“Did you—” he floundered, unsure of what he was trying to aask, let alone how to ask it. “Are you—is this—?”

Nathaniel hadn’t let him finish, instead stepping forward smartly, lifting a large and hardened hand and taking Draco’s face in it once again. He moved forward slowly, giving Draco every opportunity to back away, but Draco was frozen to the spot, barely breathing as the other man leaned in and pressed his lips against Draco’s.

The first thing he was struck by was how soft they were, in comparison to the dry, tough skin of his hands and arms. The second thing he was struck by was how _long_ it had been since someone had touched him like this, with tenderness, with care, with _desire._

He had melted into the kiss, not even feeling embarrassed when a tear slid down his cheek.

“Draco?” it was a sharp voice, somewhat dark yet shrill in its texture. He blinked several times, bringing himself back to the present, where Pansy was sat before him, looking expectant.

“Yes,” he replied, reaching for his glass of wine as though it were a lifeline.

“What happened?” she asked. “Between you and this Nathaniel? You were together?”

“Yes,” Draco repeated, and the feeling he had had, that perhaps it was _nice_ to talk about Nathaniel with Pansy, was completely gone. What a ridiculous thought that had been. He drained his wine glass.

“We were together for a short time,” he said. “After three or four months, we realised that ultimately, we were not compatible together. He wanted a future with someone, something I could not give him.”

That wasn’t the whole truth. Admittedly, it had been a sensitive topic of discussion, if they had a future together, and what it would look like. Draco had never wanted to talk about the future. He had enough trouble dealing with the present.

But that hadn’t been what had ended their relationship. What had ended their relationship was Draco’s refusal to lower any of his walls. As safe as Nathaniel had made him feel, Draco could never allow himself to be truly vulnerable. He would sob into Nathaniel’s arms after a nightmare, but he would never tell him of what it had been. He would touch his face with the utmost fondness, but he never dared speak of love. He would lie beside him in bed, but he feared becoming intimate with him.

“Have you ever been in love?” Nathaniel had asked him one day, out of the blue. Draco had set down his cup of tea and stared.

“I don’t—why do you ask?”

Nathaniel looked away.

“My mother used to talk about love all the time,” said Nathaniel. “She was such a romantic. She had all these poems memorised, and she would quote them to me as though it were a normal part of any conversation.

‘ _To be in love is to touch with a lighter hand,_ Nathaniel,’ she’d say, as if I knew what that meant.”

He chuckled slightly, and Draco felt something cold stir inside of him. Nathaniel, always so cheerful and peaceful, had shown no humour in that sound.

“ _‘We loved with a love that was more than love,’_ ” he murmured, seemingly more to himself than to Draco, before his voice returned to its normal volume. “There was one I never quite understood, though. All of the others she quoted, they spoke about love as an act of togetherness. Lovers were in love, always together, always two. And so, it didn’t make sense to me, that one. ‘ _If equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me.’_ ”

He looked at Draco, and the look in his eyes spoke clearer than he did. Draco had broken this man’s heart.

“Nathaniel,” he began, but Nathaniel lifted a hand, quieting him quicker than a Silencio.

“I don’t know why it is,” he said. “But you don’t love me.”

The way he said it wasn’t accusing. He wasn’t waiting for Draco to contradict him. He said it with certainty, with matter-of-factness.

“I’m sorry,” Draco said, and he had never felt smaller.

“Don’t be,” said Nathaniel, that soft smile that Draco adored so much appearing on his face. “It isn’t your fault. It’s just why I wondered…if there was someone else.”

Without warning, out of nowhere, Draco’s mind supplied a face, a skinny face, with sharp cheekbones and bright, shining green eyes. Draco forced the thought away, not daring to even think the name that was barrelling itself through his brain nonetheless.

 _Potter_.

He was so focused on shoving that name back into the deep abscesses of his mind that he hadn’t thought to school his features into a neutral expression.

Nathaniel nodded slowly, and Draco knew in that moment, he had lost him.

“That’s it?” came Pansy’s snappy voice. “It just ended like that?”

Draco gave a tense shrug.

“We wanted different things,” he said. He felt itchy, the bite of the wine scratching at him from the inside, the guilt over Nathaniel making him want to claw at his skin. “But he was very dear to me, he always will be.”

Pansy looked somewhat disappointed, as though this story hadn’t been nearly as gossip-worthy as she had hoped. Draco felt like he was bouncing between two versions of himself, Pansy’s friend and Nathaniel’s love. Neither of them felt like him anymore.

He checked his watch.

“Pansy, love,” he said, relieved that his voice didn’t sound nearly as shaky as his stomach felt. “I’m going to have to run. I have a prior commitment.”

“What?” Pansy asked, surprised. “With who?”

“Luna,” improvised Draco, saying the first name that came to mind. “She works next door.”

“ _Lovegood?”_ said Pansy, eyebrows shooting up to hide behind her fringe. “Since when do you spend time with Loony Lovegood?”

The prickle that went up Draco’s spine, he knew, had nothing to do with the nettle wine he had drunk.

“ _Luna_ ,” he said her name slowly and clearly, “is my friend. She has never shown me anything but kindness and support. Please do not disrespect her in my presence.”

Pansy’s red lips just barely opened as she stared at him in shock.

“A lot has changed in the last five years, Pansy,” he said, feeling a strange combination of guilt and anger swell inside of him. “I’m not who you remember, and you shouldn’t expect me to be. If you’re going to stay in the country, if you wish to see me again, I’d advise you to remember that.”

He stood from his seat, pressing a hand to smooth down his robes.

“Thank you for the drink,” he said, and nodded before walking away from the table. His mother would have been appalled at his manners, but he felt the uncomfortable sting of tears building up before his eyes, and Pansy was not the person he wanted to be around in this emotional state.

Instead, he went next door, searching for Luna.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> poems mentioned:
> 
> 'to be in love is to touch with a lighter hand' - To Be In Love, Gwendolyn Brooks
> 
> 'we loved with a love that was more than love' - Annabell Lee, Edgar Allen Poe
> 
> 'if equal affection cannot be, let the more loving one be me' - The More Loving One, W.H. Auden


End file.
